That Girl Named Pearls Book of Imaginative Thoughts and other Commodities

Blank Slate

     My mind is a blank slate. It used to be full of ideas and thoughts and things created by my own imagination-- but now it's just-- blank.
     When people think of a clean slate they think of a flawless, white, landscape. Mine's a murky gray. Most think of them as good things. A chance to start over-- to start fresh. Mine's just dull and blank from neglect.
     All the color has disappeared, spurring up in sparatic flashes before being consumed once again by the overwelming misery of it all. It wants to come back... it wants to. I want it back-- please just let it come back.
     It kept my mind off the dreariness of reality. The harsh guidlines of society. I've slammed into a brick wall of truth and I don't know if I'll ever properly recover. There is an emptiness where the color, the amazement that got me through the slow hours and crawling minutes is dispersed, and it's left nothing but a hole in for me to hide. I crawl in there do drown in my longingness, to let the darkness wash over me until I'm barely even there anymore. An empty shell. To stroke the memories and wetten the wilted flowers with my tears.
     Does anyone even notice that I'm gone? That the spark has finally died out-- that all that's left is a pile of cold ash. Wishing for the wind to pick me up and take me far, far away from this hellish world. Where things happen that you wished upon all the dandilions and all the dusty meteors that they wouldn't happen, yet they still punched you in the heart anyway.
     How does something so bright fade away so fast?
     My mind is a blank slate. It used to be full of ideas and thoughts and things created by my own imagination-- but now it's just-- blank.