Maysaloon - ميسلون

The division between bad dreams and waking reality has been blurred for me recently. Sometimes I forget what it is I was doing and have to remind myself, or I am not sure whether something was done or not. Maybe this is what prisoners who are chained or in solitary feel like. Reality and illusion merge; time stops meaning anything. I remember years ago, I used to like sprinting up a hill near where I used to live. At six o'clock in the morning even London managed to look beautiful in the crisp, clean air. There was a hunger in my belly for something, like I was seeking something with all my being. That hunger is still there, but I can no longer run. These chains are such horrid things.