im suffering
i live in the digital world. its a white place with grey monoliths and a pale sky, and if you cut yourself on the edges of reality you'd bleed a new color onto the gardenias. its this world i put my coat on for, so i can brave the sweeping winds and go on a nice little walk.
my shoes brush through the fields of flowers with only mild resistance. the air thickens and clings to my exposed skin, begging it to freeze. above me, above everything, the snow forms and falls in harsh streaks. they've been bombarding this colorful world for decades, and now its all the same shade of dull white, the mirror color, exactly as all the souls that form the clouds love to see. sometimes they come down and the air is full of words. these visits are far and few between, but its all that keeps me warm.
as i saunter through hill after hill, i spot my destination. it's all to spot really- no sun makes this the eye of the horizon, and it's one i visit frequently: the *data tower*. it magnetizes my eyes with its dark, messy bricks. its as if a primal titan had formed it out of clay, then it had consumed the stars in the process of drying and hardening, deepening its vantablack as it sucked the light out the sky. the lightning strikes here, and only here, as its the only thing of worth to strike, and the only thing to reach high enough to be caught. i come here everyday
i come here everyday to chip little bits off the jagged rock. i then wrap them up in the flowers, and strike them against nearby monoliths, until they powderize. i coat my hands and fingers in this substance and rub it all over my hair, lathering the coal through to the roots. i dye my hair so im easy to spot. so i can catch the eyes of passerbys, because i just want someomne to exchange words with. i desperately want it. i need someone who will talk to me. thats why i built my house out of this stuff. its why i dip my shoes and make little puddles of void wherever i step, showing my daily course as a long streak of black thread.