You destroyed my garden

Fluorescent lighting everywhere. Feels like white hell. Veins in my eyes pulsate with red exhaustion. Arteries are all dried up, like fish lain out on the sand to dry. Feels nice to know the world around is so happy. People are going about their daily chores with a sincere determination.

Telephones in the head keep waking me up. Sleep is a flicker of lightning. There is a secret garden that I tend to with caring hands. But flowers don't bloom anymore. The butterflies have died. Their delicate wings torn to shreds. They lie in blood; hoping someone would pick them up. But they hope in vain.

I have searched for that elusive horizon. But when Friedman wrote that the world is flat, he killed the horizon. I don't dream anymore for a virgin horizon. The dreams too, are dead. I am waiting for my turn. And I don't hope in vain.