Who?

There's a lull, a silent, killing, creeping lull. It's deadly, spewing green poison into my thoughts, that oozes out into the rest of me, changes colour, turns into many more deadly hues, so many more. Muddy browns, cemented greys, a vertigo in black.

Sway, sway, sway to this non-conversation in all the dull shades of Melancholy. Who knew not-bright would be this blatant, this loud? What ricochets off the walls surrounding my mind, what rude interruptions am I trying to suppress?

Why do moonlit nights beside the seashore offer no salvation? I wouldn't take any if they were shoved in my face. Just an aching, gaping wound of something missing, but what is it? Where are my answers? Where is my peace? Where is my rainbow, my leprechaun, my gold? Where are the illusions?

This half insanity offers me no explanations. It comes and goes, like a visitor, an uninvited, pestering houseguest. Enter now, exit later, enter again, more exits, every day, hours and hours and hours of halfness, nothing completed. Hold it in, hold it together. For how long? There are no voices whispering "just a little longer."

Nothing.

Xavia, who will save us?