Nothing, I feel nothing.
No disgust, no fear, no anger, no ecstasy.
Blank are these days, blank are these nights.
A neutral aridity staring at me in the mirror.
Green as nothing.
You keep asking me for reasons, you would do anything for concrete reasons.
An irrefutable mathematical logic. Cause and effect. Destroy the former and the latter would evaporate in the harsh noon sun.
You would want to name my fears, not so you could vanquish them for me, but so you could pretend you know them.
These reasons are many and none.
It is not the ailment itself as much as the realization that nothing will ever dissipate it. Occasional sparkles of joy might overshadow it, every once in a while.
Overshadow, not outshine.
For joy means deceit.
Brief and overwhelming.
And as sudden as its absence, later on. And equally as unexpected.
Do not ask me for reasons, there is an extra cold shade in my eyes that always seems to elude you, somehow. It keeps hiding from my mirror, too, whenever hope, that traito