A lucid dream clouding over me, this state of delusion that has pillowed me since last July, when I was last happiest. I miss those summer days; I miss my life. I lay under the night’s shadows, dried from the aftermath, pained by this nothingness. I turn over and think about my existence. I refuse to believe life is singular, one life that awaits to be fulfilled, worshipped to its greatest. A clock ticks even in this dreamlike state.

My thoughts don’t break from August, from my father’s death. Similar to these tears in my mind that refuse to form and fall. Guilt, more than anything, is found: guilt for not being able to cry or mourn, guilt for not saying I love you enough. The colourless sky fades away and beats a new colour, yet my own grey life fixates, nearing a point of madness and, worse, a point of end. How a better dream forms in mind, a dream of my adolescence stopping in this moment of time.

I get up and stare into the mirror, escaping in thoughts. My eyes appear soft, with a boldness like blue. I remember Yukio Mishima wrote that the body must be trained to accept death as naturally as life. I feel the truth of that as the night’s lamp catches my eyes. His obsession with beauty and discipline transcends in his work: a man who honoured that sentence, who died in honour of his own discipline, a man who dreamed of it. As I lie once more under the night’s shadow, I feel a quiet echo that this time will pass, and these dark thoughts.