Underneath my skin

Is forever sleep such a bad thing, an unconscious life. I should have studied, I should have bloodied studied.

In dead silence it comes, stirring underneath the surface of the mind. Silent, dead, empty, the void of cold penetrating nothingness that overcomes when feelings do no longer function as motivators. What is left when the emptiness of being has overgrown your fears, like weeds overgrowing a garden until there is no longer a garden left but a jungle of wild plants. There is no escape from the wild nature that inhabits these plants, making them uncontrollable, rocks rolling off a cliff, plunging into the depths of a river rampaging underneath. All there is to do is cutting down the plants, the wilderness, the jungle, clearing what is underneath the surface, the skin.