Four walls, a floor, and a ceiling . . .

Silent and without light . . .

No thoughts to drive me, except for images of madness . . . 

The surfaces unmoving, yet slowly crushing into my body . . .

The blank walls covered in paintings of deranged beauty . . .

Trapped in a box, that is to never be opened . . .

Is life worth living in the urban boringness, never to change or advance . . . 

No neighbors, yet I see people outside my windows . . . 

Mundane beauty of rushing lives, never to stop, for they will ultimately stop . . . 

My mind blanks, as I realize my thoughts are without meaning . . . 

There is no method to my madness, for my madness is the average thought of the average person . . .

People hide behind masks of normality, yet explore the macrocosm of schizophrenic ideas in their free minds . . . 

Opinions never known to man, remain forever hidden from the descendants, for those opinions are to revolutionary for the ancestors . . . 

One man, sits typing away, trying to define concepts, yet he understands the futility of his actions, because they are worthless . . .

He ponders his life in those four walls, a floor, and a ceiling . . .

Wondering why he hasn't ended his unhinged beliefs of existence . . .

He glances out his window, one final time, wondering why he couldn't be one of those existences who never stop long enough for their thoughts to catch up . . .

He dreams of lives where he is, as his arms jerks the blade deeply through his veins . . .

His last sight before his next life, is those blank walls finally painted, not with images of madness, but with the beauty of his life.