  Reflections From A Darkened Doorway 10th Oct 98, just before midnight there's no chance of it happening in the present. Sitting in the darkness to compose my thoughts you eventually start to wonder what it's all about. How some people can go through life with barely a care while others are imprisoned and tourtured in their ivory tower. You don't switch on the light for fear that it'll hurt. Your eyes are blinded by it and your soul seared and scarred. It's amazing the perspective that the darkness confers - not seeing what you write but not actually caring anyway. It feels right, but nothing like the warm comforting place people envision and call home. A light shines faintly from the bottom of the stairwell, fitting the mood inside rather than providing a semblance of contrast. The quiet rumble of cars outside does nothing but emphasise how insignificant you are compared to everyone else, the noise of the keyboard downstairs taunts you in your pathetic state, underscoring how little you are. Another light flashes in the window but is mostly obscured by the curtain, bathing the room in a faint, ghostly illumination. The whirring blades of the fan epitomise the desolation of the mind. The chill breeze circulating around the room invigorates, but with a dead life, and the light blinks out, leaving you alone once more. It's utterly lonesome in the doorway to a room, nothing alive bothers you, it's like the ants and roaches that should be there either don't exist or don't care. Staring back into the deserted room night vision returns once more, but does nothing to disguise the deadness of your surroundings. A sneeze reminds you that you're still alive, however much you may wish for the contrary. I close my eyes and drift away...      
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