Too Late

Your body is shivering

So you lie and say you're cold

'Cause you know it's wrong

And you know you shouldn't

But you do



Your mind is racing

So you turn up the volume

'Cause you're done listening

And you know you should

But you won't



Your thoughts wander

So you hold on to him tighter

'Cause you refuse to believe

And you want to forget

But you can't



Your eyes water

So you tell them how you feel

'Cause you can't keep lying

And you want to stop


But it's too late.

Decisions (Part 1)

You're in a small room. The white walls stare back at you, completely blank, other than the simple white doors facing you on three sides. Actually, there could very well be another door behind you, but something tells you not to look; that it doesn't really matter what is on that fourth wall just out of your sight. Instead, you look at the three doors. At first glance, they look identical. Each is painted in the exact same bright white color as the walls surrounding you, and each has a small silver doorknob. However, when you look closer, you can see that the doors are slightly different.

The door directly in front of you looks the newest. You walk closer to touch the white wood and can still smell the faint odor of paint. The doorknob looks as if it were just cleaned. Your distorted reflection looks up at you without a fingerprint to fog the image. Not wanting to ruin the doorknob's shine with your fingers, you step back to investigate the other doors.

You return to the center of the room, keeping your eyes to the ground to avoid looking at the fourth wall, part of you still warning you not to look and that it isn't important. You turn to the right wall and lift your head to see another average-looking door facing you. But this door is clearly not as new as the other, or at least not as well-kept. The door is dotted here and there with gray fingerprints, and the doorknob is smudged with what must be the oil from the hands of hundreds of others. The door isn’t completely uninviting, though. But perhaps the third door will be even better.

Once again keeping your eyes down, you find your way to the middle of the white room. Finally you look at the door to the right of you. This door was definitely the oldest. As you step closer to it, you notice small specks of brown wood peeking out from cracks in the white paint. The silver knob shows signs of age and use, but it isn’t as filthy as the on the left of the room. In fact, as you inspect the door, you notice no signs of dirt. It looks as spotless as the first door, with only small scratches in the wood. It seems promising, but there’s still two other doors to choose from.

As you step back to decide between the three doors, you suddenly notice just how small the room actually is. There’s no way it was this small before. The walls seem to be closing in on you as claustrophobia takes over. You feel completely and terrifyingly alone, as if there is and has never been any other being crawling along the face of the earth with you. You crave to be with someone, to liberate yourself from this room and the solitude it traps you in. Taking short breaths, you look frantically from one door to the other, trying to make a quick decision to escape the fear overcoming you. Dashing for the first door you inspected, you reach out for the spotless, shining doorknob. You throw the door open and hesitate entering only long enough to ensure that there is no danger awaiting you on the opposite side of the door. Taking in a whiff of paint, you step through the doorway, leaving the white walls to stare in on themselves.