The Pane Stained Window

Staring out the pane stained window. My heart pours itself on the field of grass. I feel the zephyr through the glass as it brushes through the leaves of the tree, standing in the middle, aged to perfection. Every leaf discolored as the autumn air fills the atmosphere. I can tell the day had just begun, but I feel its end coming whilst I reach for the cup filled with nothing. My eyes dilate as I fix my gaze upon the cup that had once been filled with dreams. Unfulfilled ideas of reality, because my mind is the only real thing I see. My heart is the only thing that feels this breeze. The sound of birds chirping pierce the house, yet I know every single crack had been sealed.

Wandering through old images of what my eyes had thought to be there. My hair, my body, my movements. Do they exist? Or am I just trying to cope with all of this and claim it's bliss? Small insects chatter outside, but in here there's nothing. Just a cup filled with nothing, a bed filled with memories, a light filled with words I had once read, a notebook filled with words I had once written, and a self that was once filled with ideas that it was real. My only connection to the world outside, the pane stained window, and beliefs that it's there.

Scratching noises, reminding me of my beliefs, as if they are trying to speak. What are they saying? "You've been inside for way too long, come out and play." A temptation, I feel, must not be acknowledged, a faint glimmer of the dream I created outside my own reality. Cryptic Morse code from the branches, saying all the things I want to hear, but never what I need. I've been in here long enough to know my cries will stay as cries, and that I will not leave, get on my knees and plead for my ideas to just leave me.

Yet I still ask myself these same questions. Why am I here? What am I doing? Where are you? but being stuck and far away is the best way I see fit to my dilemma. Outside there is nothing but mayhem and destruction, hidden away behind these disguises of beauty, hidden away my brief moments of happiness. Was seeing all of it worth it? Yes. Was staying in here any better? Yes. But still I find myself drifting into the deeper parts of sleep, where every moment awake is asleep, and every moment of sleep is a new period of awareness.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

This really is just a dream where I record my thoughts and feelings.

Maybe,

Just maybe,

The pain stained window is the manifestation of said thoughts and feelings.