Wandering around the room like I'm in a cycle, spiraling
Hours passed, it hurts my knees from within.
Creating the millionth dream in my fantasy,
Will I ever stop this pattern or has it become a part of me?

Witnessing all these blurry images in me
Happy crowds and smiling faces, rising from my tragedy.
Is it my brain that is protecting me?
By creating false realities I've never tasted.

Should i be grateful for it or just stop?
My tasks are overflowing from the desk, a pile so high, someone could climb to the top.
My intuition tells me to cut this habit off,
Like a tumor that should be chopped.

Finally discovered it's all just parts
Of me that was left deprived of
The moments which i should have been in.
Have they turned into curses or are they just blessings?

Constantly putting off, it's addicting
Cause as long as I am in my head and dreaming,
I wouldn't need any other thing
Still, I can sense my higher self hoping:

Someday in the future I'd be quitting
Replacing these fake memories with something genuine
I don't know if it will happen but if it ever does
My legs would finally sigh and be greatly thanking.

I continued to shake in fear as we moved deeper into the bleak jungle of Vorboon, the canopy above suffocating us like body-clung latex. The torturous heat produced from me crystalline salt of the sweat gland, cascading in hallucinogenic fragments. Mirrors, reflecting refracted light, curved around us and confused the spectrum of amalgamated forms.

"Outside-Inwards Jenkins, please, I cannot take this any longer! We must leave this writhing jungle!" I wept and fell to my knees in lamentation.

"Do not weep-weep, earth-being, for we have arrived upon the temple's entrance."

The temple soared above us as if in the dream of some secluded architect creating cataclysmic structures within his slumber. Its beauty was truly beheld, by us, fading into mist-forged fog, reminiscent of the Marabou stork or the Shoebill.

Upon the temple's steps stood the long-necked man, Scatard Acrosdaune. His countenance was elongated with sinister elation; unquestionably bizarre in every way I had ever conceived. Everything about his appearence was long and disconcerting, as if he were the echo of an echo of a man.

"Please, thou welcome most unto the existential temple of the Abstract Scroll. Scatard Acrosdaune, I, shall be your guide within the depths." Now he pauses with ominous intent.

"Where is thine scroll? Where is thine scroll? Where is thine scroll?"

Within the temple, corporate blocks of incestuous dual notation, rippling within a multitudinous alignment of masonry, partook in the abuse of subterfuge in order to forget the Sea Horns. We would head deeper still, deep into oblique chambers of solitary apparition, conjuring that which had plagued our collected mental cognition.

With cascading light faltering, lurid transcendence of encumbered paralysis began. Physical forms traversing innumerable catacombs of dread— between concrete moulded into the shape of modernity and totem poles transpiring against the import of collected consciousness, inspiring gelatinous brain matter— had overcame us.

Sliding through abyssal-black tar of stroking, crawling, writhing primal sludge, subsequently escaping through pores of sweat coagulation. We allowed silk-woven experience to be spun within a lair of manifestation, coinciding with visions of mutilation!

Azul despejado,
iris color mar es lo que yo quiero mirar,
en aquel castillo dorado
que tanto anhelo explorar.

A tu lado sería feliz,
como primavera en otoño,
como aguas que no se mezclan.
Eres el tesoro escondido:
mi arco Valori.

Tu amanecer es como aquel arco amarillo,
tan lindo como el sol,
tan desplegable como las estrellas.
Quisiera estar entre tus brazos.

Un minuto de silencio.
Oh, mi lord:
esto ha llegado a su fin.

"Don’t mind their judgment or wilt for their say—
Once mortals behold you, they'll all drift away.
You won’t need these petals or roots to remain,
You’ll be sung in sonnets, not whispered in vain.”

Lotus said all these words with such great love
A love too polished, too practiced to shove.
It wrapped around Rose like the promise of a vow.

"Where is this throne you all speak of in bloom?
Is it real—or merely a crown veiled in doom?”
Rose asked Lotus, with her petals drawn tense
like a trembling stem in the wind, unsure of defense.

The throne,” Lotus said, “is no pedestal crowned.
It beats in the thumping hearts that gather around.
Not shaped by the hand, nor born of the clay.
But risen each time a mortal looks your way.”
Azure, the Tiller, heard all but stood still,
Like old loam that waits at the foot of a hill.

“What is a throne?” Tulip didn’t quite say
"Is it filled with fragrance that never goes away?
Is it stitched in the petals that never fall down?
Or tucked in gazes that hollow a crown?"

Daffodil said-"If we linger in lore, we’ll root in despair
Let’s find the path out, while we’re still aware.”
"Let's consult Lotus on this " Marigold told.
"Before we become myth at the threshold.

A rosewater and sugar flavored dream
That stokes a burning star within the heart
And fills the eyes with galaxies a'gleam.
Fantastic hopes rekindled from the dead
Of happy endings no poor odds can thwart
Race through a mind lying awake in bed.
Many a fantasy has filled my head.

5 more minutes
I’d mumble
Wake up
Repeating
I’d mumble again
Wake up
Louder, a yell
Wake up
Wake up
A scream
Wake up
5 more minutes
I yell
I scream
An acquiesce
Because what’s 5 minutes
When you have your whole life

Let her sleep
she’d mumble
A sigh of muffled relief
Burrowed in a sweaty pillow
escaping to my dreams again
Where 5 minutes feels like 5 hours, 5 days
5 more minutes
I’d say half asleep
At 5, 6, 7
13
15
Wake up
17
Nobody wakes me up now
I awoke

At 22
I miss you
5 more minutes
I say to no one at all
I want to escape to my dreams again
You only live there
Where you stroke my skin
And nothing is wrong
And 5 minutes feels like a lifetime

I wish a day could stretch beyond its twenty-four hours;
allowing dawn to linger while I savour breakfast in calm;
no frantic check of time as I pour my tea;
no rush to dash for transport or meetings.

Morning light would flood my window long enough;
for slow stretches and thoughtful planning;
I'd arrive at work with minutes to spare;
settle into tasks without scrambling notes.

Lunch would become an unhurried affair;
a proper break with laughter that lasts;
afternoon hours would hum with clear focus;
projects advancing at a steady, unrushed pace.

Evening could unfold like a second dawn;
time to practise hobbies or wander with friends;
family dinners would not be a race against the clock;
conversations deepening as hours drift by.

Social outings need not end at curfew's chime;
late-night talks stretching into starlit freedom;
then at last I'd choose my rest: eight, ten, twelve hours;
each second mine, reclaimed from life's tight measure.