I haven’t written anything in quite a while, quite a long time actually, and it kind of feels like I’ve gotten somekind of almost-permentant “writers block” (not that I am much of a writer in actuality). Maybe I can blame uni and whatnot, but eh.
Anyway, this small, small piece of text was kind of hard to write. The feeling I tried to catch is something that feels.. hm, detached. So it’s quite bad and quite weird. But atleast I managed to write something. And it’s more of a poem than a story, or rather, it is.
In a room seluded from time.
In a room where nothing changes.
The seasons outside changes, but the room stays the same.
The flower withers but the room stays the same.
People come and people goes, but I stay the same.
Sheets get changed, the room gets cleaned and nice,
but nothing changes.
It’s always the same.
Ignorning time, ignoring life.
In this room where the outside is simply observered.
Where the trees sway in the wind, where the sun goes
up and down.
It won’t change.
And neither will This.