the entity: melancholy

Melancholy traced identical prisms and fractals into the engulfing carpet and regarded the plain ceiling. they wryly grimaced at the realization that the roof, a barricade between the more heavenly firmament and constellations, was a sturdy and cruel atlas of the journeys they could never embark on, sights playing like films at the back of their eyes.

there is a door and a window and they stretch further away whenever Melancholy tries to approach (but they are not moving and Melancholy knows this and they know this and they cannot separate their heart from their chest but they wish so badly to because at least it will go places they will not).

Melancholy propped their wobbly arms on the ground and hazily swerved their head around the barren, lifeless room where, besides the window and the door and the ceiling, there were only mirrors.

cringing, Melancholy was brutally reminded why they preferred wasting away on the passive, indifferent floor, but now they couldn't look away once their eyes honed into the mirror like a predator and its prey caught in the second before the carnivorous pursuit. Melancholy felt themselves devoured by their own reflection because they could see nothing at all. there was a reflection there, Melancholy sensed that its gaze was burying into them with contempt, but they could not see the person they thought they were.

Melancholy haltingly crawled toward the looking glass directly in front of them to just stare at the apathetic eyes with anchored bruises beneath them. that was all Melancholy could see, and even then those eyes were nebulous and nearly impossible to discern. if someone asked, Melancholy would not be able to answer why their vision was suddenly inundated with blurs, a fog that rolled into the spaces of their overcast peripheral.

they curled into themselves as they crumpled to the ground and caved to the storms snaked around their eyes.