There are days when he can’t get out of bed. Grey days where his entire world shrinks to this little box in which he dwells. Days where these four sterile walls of paint and plaster becomes all there is. Golden light creeps in beneath the drawn curtains; the haunting rumour of a different life, lived by a different man, on a very different sort of day.
A day full of colour.
A man full of life.
From some distant place a dog barks and a child laughs. But in his chest is only a gnawing blackness, filling him with the dread of a life unlived, a life slipping away day by colourless day, while he lies here, trapped in this little box of a world.
He considers rising and passing from his world into the rumoured one beyond, but to what avail? Out there the dogs bite and the children mock. Out there is the unknown. A world of chaos. A world of danger.
In here, all is as it is, and as it is, it shall remain. It is stable and known, and through its grey stagnation, it is safe.
So here he stays.
His bed is soft. His mind is black. And all his world is grey.
Thank you for your time and attention.
Maximilian, that is a very well written descriptor of the terrible torment that thousands, perhaps millions, of people experience every day. You captured it beautifully.