Monochromatic

And as the days go by, I no longer know if I'm tired or just used to this room. I have a huge window that I can't decide to open, and I have preferred to light myself with a small lamp that barely illuminates my thoughts. Everything in here is the same; I see it white, cold, and empty. I force myself to imagine poems that never reach anyone, whispering words to the white void of my room. The silence is so thick that I can almost touch it. Everything converges into a single color, a white shroud that smothers any trace of vitality. When I dream, I see myself flat, without depth or color. When I cry, my tears do not carry sadness, but worn-out apathy. All these insipid texts, born from nothing, always take on a monochromatic tone, lifeless, like this room: a white coffin mistake for shelter.