As the evening reaches its end, I feel the cold building up inside me, creeping up my spine. The door closes and my home is as empty as I am. Panic starts invading my mind, a myriad of warnings flashing up against a danger that isn't there ; like every thought is a shiver running across my brain – the ghost of a feeling, the cause of which is unknown.

Do I want to know people as much as I want to be known ?

Did I even open up or have I stayed inside my own head, this whole time ?

Do I see people as much as I need them to see me ?

Am I genuine ? Am I honest ?

I am self-centered. An egoist.

Choking on my own loneliness, drowning in the ideas and fears I know too well, my only escape would be to crawl out of my own skin and be allowed to live as the air, for I would then have purpose. This day has ended but another has yet to begin. This inbetween holds no expectations, no prospects, and therefore has the potential to be molded into anything. It is time for everything to be born but time I do not have any use of. I do not believe I can give birth to something. Nothing I am can be given (I might not have anything to give). Unable to move, my body is only shaken by occasionnal shivers. I am shutting down, one area after the other. The exhaustion is falling upon me as a sentence and I let the void overcome me, close my eyes.

Is this place too cold ?

Or am I just

not

warm

enough ?