Even the stone will crumble.

 Without water to drown the pages, we were perhaps safe. But in a ramble upon nothing that you may have read if you know my name, I discovered.

There beside the tree, a book of the tree, with solvent in ornate font swirled about the page. 
And without it all, it would seem, that only the grave marks remain, and should each word disintigrate. 

Shall i go on as I had no means to attempt? For I have little to say this day, other than I am lonely. Rather so, you know, lonely in your head kind of lonely. Like, the voice up there tires of itself and has simply given in to silence. And when you are silent within your head (which I had once thought impossible) you begin to fear for your sanity. You find yourself laughing at rather mundane or insulting things (in particular, yourself), and you bare your foolish and rather dismaying grin as if you might be pleased for your not-so-pearly whites to be on show.
And no one else is.
That's the thing, you laugh and you laugh and you hit things and you almost cry in laughter, and the laughter continues because you hear a knock at the door, and then you laugh in the knocker's innocent face as he attempts to continue his own solemn life, and you bash through a wall without hesitance of spreading the silence of your mind.
And the mind is silent. 
It waits again, because you've tired yourself out in excitement. And when you wake up on the floor it becomes obvious that you've been irrational, or have misbehaved beyond your knowledge. And a deep and dreamless sleep tries to tackle you to the ground again, and once it has you there, it lets you for a while, it lets you just sleep without resting.
 Then it wakes you, your silent mind, and it sings you a song in the voice of a child you once were, but it does not allow you to move your body. It doesn't allow you to touch reality, or breathe into it, it just holds you at the throat and sings and waits. 
Yes, I am tired of waiting for myself to take action, it says. It blames me for being dull and lifeless. 

There was yesterday. Yesterday was a fine day, I walked around an unpriced zoo, and took in the creatures as closer to me than the sun. For that's what they are, though the sun burned at the reds of my hair moreso than the animals breathed the same air, and illuminated me like a devil's child.
When not even he'd have me. 
I'm not sure what this is, actually. I mean I've been talking for a while. Which is hilarious because I don't think I've spoken today, and it seems that is becoming a regular occurance, going until 5pm without speaking. 
But! Positives!
Lie within, does my voice, saves itself for the story telling I might one day be so good for.
Where? 

I can't even state or confirm an apology for my writing being so mislead, because it's never really been any thing. Unfortunately, I can't structure writing, I can't even write, I'm simply stringing together styles already read and terribly so, misspelling words and using incorrect meanings and... oh heaven knows.
And it does you know. Know of the silence in my head.

I wake up, and I'll drink the sweetest and most strongest tea imagineable, then I'll stretch like a cat might stretch, then a bit like a yoga instructor might - and then I do routined exercises. To supposedly flow my blood freely, to pump my heart a little faster and make myself feel ... human. Only, I never feel it. I never feel human.
I do not quite see the skin that wraps me as any thing to do with me.
And it's perfect, to be in such a balanced and delicate place of hilarious misery, feeling egotistical and yet extreme self-loathing - but I must be from another realm.
Tell me I cannot write something?


"I'm not from here", she said suddenly, as though waking. The shopkeeper paused momentarily, the receipt halfway in the bag, and said nothing. He seemed confused, as though she had just appeared before him, and until then he had not known even what job he was undertaking.
Perplexed by her own realisation, she took the bag silently, smiled like something she'd seen polite women do in films, and left the shop. 
The sun was vacant of it's placing, but baring down heavily nonetheless, and she'd much rather it wasn't. 
It would only be submerged in water where she was from.