Colors...

Black. The ultimate of darkness, of deep places wherein things are often lost and never found again. And before the Black field is White. Soft, gentle White. Smooth, like cream. The epitome of an empty page, a blank space to be claimed, for something to be created, to be found. Things are not lost on White. And on the White span is Red. Thick, rich, full of unspeakable things, good things and bad things. Red is pain, or anger, or sorrow, or shame. Red is guilt and fear. Red floods over White, covering it's clean purity with imperfection, revealing it's weakness, it's ability to be overrun. Red drips from White into Black, where it is lost, for nothing can overcome Black. Black is strong. Black shows no contrast against it, save White, and White succumbs to all colors. Black never succumbs. Black is forever. Even Red must give way to Black.

Dreams, or Reality...?

Sometimes the things you dream in the night become real. Things of black night become things of yellow sunlight. Things you should never have to see, never have to know. But you see them, you know them, and they are real. Sometimes the things you hope you never have to face are the things you must face next. Sometimes you don't know if you want to dream, or want to wake. Sometimes one is no better or worse than the other. Usually, that happens when they both suck pretty bad. Sometimes, all you can do is hang on for the ride and hope it changes, by you waking or you falling asleep. Sometimes, the dream is reality, and reality is but a dream...

Control

The essence of life is control. One either has it, or one does not. If one has not control, then one has not strength. To live one must first survive. To survive one must have control over the world, even in it's smallest part. To control any of the world, even just one's own world and that of it that relates to one, one must have control over one's self. Control is key. To lose control is to break laws, rules, precedents, and any and all sorts of proprieties. Control is what keeps everything together. Strong nations have control. Strong people have control. Strong businesses, strong leaders, strong individuals have control. Control is imperative. To lose control is to fail. To lose control is to lose respect, to lose freedoms, to lose everything that control let you hold tight to. Never, ever lose control. It is unacceptable. Unforgiveable. Unforgettable. Not to mention dangerous. And unseemly.
Control is key. Never lose control. Ever. No matter what.
Control is key.

The Door

The door. The door is the portal between the chaos and the emptiness, between the fires and the barren lands. It is in the wall, but not of it. It is strong, where the wall only gives the appearance of strength. The door is secure, built and barred with all the things that speak of steadfastness and invulnerability. It is stone, and iron, and thick wood, all layered and bound together so that no fire, lightning, ram, nor attack can break it.
The door cannot be budged from the outside. Things from the barren lands may pass through it's solidity, but never can they open it. Things from the fire, however, can never pass through the door at all. They have the potential to destroy the door, to shatter it beyond repair--and this they must do to go beyond it.
The difference between the door and the wall is simply the reason behind their existance. The wall is there to contain the fire; the door is there to release it. The wall is my fight against the trials of the life outside of me; the door is my fight against that which is in and of me. If the wall falls, then I had not the strength to fight the world any longer. If the door falls, then I had not the strength to fight myself any longer. It would be so much easier to open the door and let loose the fires...but I can't, or won't. I know not which and I know not why.
So for now, the door holds against their fury. For now, the fires are held at bay. For now, the erosion of the door is bearable. For now, I remain.

The Wall

It isn't perfect. It isn't secure. It isn't impenetrable. But it's the best I have. The wall has flaws, cracks, gaping holes that I try to hide from all eyes, because the wall is all I have...I hide behind it, trap all the horror and terror there. I lock away all the hurts that I cannot control, and all the joys too. Because anything of any strenght might make me lose control, might bring the whole wall down. And that wall keeps me sane. I need the wall, need the control it brings. Control is life. Without it, I would not exist. Without it, I would be dead. Control is key. Anything that cannot be completely, utterly controlled, goes behind the wall. And when anything gets out, disaster. When control is lost, all is lost. Fires burn across the land that is me, the places outside of the wall, barren places because all has been taken from them and hidden away behind that wall. Better barren than wasted. Better dead than nonexistant.
But the wall isn't perfect. It breaks, collapses, shatters. And when it does, I panic. I fear. I struggle with the fires, with the falling stones, straining to build the wall back up and lock the flames away again. Lock them away before they can destroy what little is left of the wasteland that is me. I am desolate. I am darkness. I am isolation. I am emptiness. I am nothing. I am nothingness. The fires destroyed everything in me except that which was locked away. I am death, but not yet am I nonexistance. Ta me anseo. I am still here. There is simply nothing in me. The wall is ice, and yet does not melt to the fires within, not yet. I can still keep it cold. I just cannot keep it from shattering. It comes apart more and more, and I dread the day when I cannot build it back up again. I've lived with the wall for so long, I do not know how to survive without it. And yet I am losing it...and soon the fires will rage rampant across my barren soul...