Cold is the breath of the night. Chilling breeze, faceless as every single time. Walking by the trash bins, the lights of a passing car flickering as its roaring engine fills the sky with the fullness of unmet expectations. There is no why, no cause or reason. There are no scapegoats.

The path to home. Each step unique but crosses the same paths. Leads to the same destination. The elevator starts its trip from top to ground floor. How odd, seems like our lives; born in the skies, then buried in the ground. But in its case, the trip repeats several times a day like a curse to never end. Like falling from grace.

The key turns, the door opens. Key in, key out. Life seems full but it’s full of nothing.

The clock ticks and travels the same path, every day, forever. Till the end of time. But we? We are finite pathways leading ourselves to the same deadend. Vessels led to the same harbor. Bees that slowly waste the poison from their stings to delay the end.

And then, death inevitably comes.

It grows. From inside the walls. In the core of the soul. Inside out, slowly, when you’re not expecting. It pops up and causes pain and sickness. When you think that everything is right it slaps you in the face. Thrives in disgust. Degrades all it grows upon. You try to clean it, bleach it but it comes back.

Whatever happens, however fast you run, it doesn’t matter.

It’s repetitive, mechanical, cursed, funereal. The place that hides its owner, that injects comfort, security, is not a refuge. It is hell. It’s a fucking hole.

Slowly spreading under the wall. Expanding behind the glossy paint. It crawls inside the heart. In the shadows, day or night, being there or not. It’s still there, growing, infecting everything on its way. It remains after we’re gone.

Like regrets, they tear us apart until we feel numb. Numb to our own selves, so we program ourselves for self-destruction. And like the disgusting stench of mold, thoughts infect our brain and soul, making it impossible to run away from the life we ​​are trapped in.