Some days just feel like existence is kept in permanent limbo. Like the time lingering between when the leaves have fallen but the first snow has yet to arrive. Everything is just brown and gray and wet. The cold bites your cheeks but you don’t feel it. The sun rises and sets but you don’t see it; you wake when it’s dark and fall asleep when it’s dark; leave when it’s dark, return when it’s dark, and it’s always ever cloudy anyway.
Some days everything just feels empty.
Some days you hear the devil’s lilt coming perched from your shoulder into your ear.
Some days you feel yourself succumb to it.
Some days turn into many days, and many days when you hear it, you are not too sure it is him.
Some days you feel it come from your own heart, echo in each chamber and drum upwards into your brain. Some days it steeps in your emotions, some days keeps in all your memories, some days seeps into your thoughts. All sources of happiness now seemingly encrypted, feeling it’s eclipsed in a world which has jilted you; fills itself into the cavity in your tired soul, the depravity hardwires itself into your whole being.
Some days turn into many days, to most days, to all.