Everywhere there were colours. They merged, became new; they parted, became themselves again. And words. Lots of them, interleaving to form jargon. Some made sense, some didn't.
There were stories I listened to, unblinking. I would believe them one instant, the next brought me evidence that they were untrue. There was nothing to do but feign indifference in the knowledge.
Time travelled in circles. People, faces, thoughts, lies, revolved around it. Nothing made sense any more. What remained amidst the chaos was Trust. Shattered beyond repair.
Demands flow in with no mercy. The overwhelming futility of it all threatens to unsettle the balance, yet with no credit to anyone, least of all one's self, life still perches on the razor's edge and survives.
Wish there really was a Pensieve like the one Dumbledore has (had?), where I can pull out the silver threads of thoughts and memories from my head and drop into, swirl, and... throw away.
In the absence of which, blog posts such as these are deigned to serve the purpose.