A little something I wrote a long while ago. I remember, it was raining out and I decided to go outside by myself, with nothing but my notebook and pencil, and the small shed sheltering me from the rain.
...Can you figure out the meaning of the bowl?
I wake up in a cold, white room, holding a bowl for some reason..
I get up, my neck in pain, legs stiff, and walk over to a small white table in the center of this room and I sit down in the old, wooden chair accompanying it.
I set the bowl down on the table and I start to wonder if it had ever meant something to me at one time.
I wonder if my bowl has ever held anything, maybe something important, and for some reason,
I hope it did.
I sit here and think,
What happened to me? ...
What happened to my friends?
Did I hurt them?
Maybe they left me...
I can't help but start to feel sad, and even a little lonely..
...this cold white room, it seems anything but homely.
I feel like I'm going crazy, there's nothing here...
No window, no door, not even a crack.
Will I die here?
Who knows.. Maybe..
I laugh a little in fear..
There's no escaping this place, no chance to flee..
So I sit here in silence, as days turn to weeks..
I can't tell what day it is, let alone what time,
So I just sit here all day, still wondering why..
Why am I here?
What is this place?
Will I ever leave?
I hope so.. in time..
No matter how long I sit here,
this room cannot break me,
For, you see, it is my own mind,
It is me.
And I still feel hope,
I still feel free,
I have to feel hope,
Or else I'll be stuck here for eternity.
So I continue to sit here in silence,
In this cold white hell,
I keep staring and sitting,
Inspecting my bowl,
And wondering still,
If the bowl had ever been filled at all.