The crimson horizon isn’t outside, it’s the landscape of my head. I’ve lived here for too long, inside a red light that’s not light at all, but the echo of something I once called “myself.” Here, the sea doesn’t move anywhere. It only reflects the rage that circles endlessly within.
The sky isn’t a sky. It’s the burning wall of thought, dripping memories, forming silhouettes of grief that never finished dying. Every wave that rises is a fragment of the past refusing to dissolve, and every breath of mist on the horizon carries names I no longer dare to remember.
I stand in the middle of it, formless, directionless, yet still pulsing. They call it dusk, but I know it’s not the outside world. It’s just the mind, slowly unfolding, spilling everything inside until it becomes color.
And if you stare too long, you might start to see your own.
