Writing test.

Turn off the noise. Open the gates. Let's see what kind of madness we can find.


The world opens its eyes to the vast grey cloud of sorrow and regret that settles around our ankles like a cat about to nap. We don't try to push it away. What use would that be? It's nothing solid, nothing real. Just a cloud, a feeling, something that shifts and slides round as your foot kicks out in frustration.

So you leave it be. What harm can it do? It's just a cloud at your feet. A cloud that darkens and darkens with each passing day. It changes slowly, slowly. So slowly that you don't feel it gaining mass, strengthening its hold. You don't notice it tugging with each step you take, slowing you down, making you late, making you tired.

Maybe you start to think that you are getting weak, so you struggle harder and harder, fighting to gain the same ground that you covered easily before. You don't even notice that you can't see your feet any more. You've become too accustomed to the grey cloud that began at your ankles and is now climbing your calves. But it moves slowly, oh so slowly. Gradually holding you back more and more, making you feel weaker and weaker.

Until, one day, you give in. You can't fight any more. You can't breathe without tasting that cloud. You can see nothing but grey. All sounds around you are muted, all that is left is the thump, thump, thump of your heart and a low moan in your throat. There is nothing but grey and the steady thump, thump, thump.

And things change so gradually, that you don't notice the time spreading thin between the thumps. You assume your concept of time has been lost, or your hearing is fading. It seems like hours, like days between beats. You strain and strain waiting for that next thump. Waiting and waiting for proof that you are still alive.

Until all you do is wait. And everything is grey.