A repetitive study in consciousness, existence, and madness told from a sleeping beauty.

You are alive.

You walk out of the walls of the tower and into the forest. You feel the dew-kissed grass beneath your bare feet and see only in shades of green. You walk.

You hear the birds chirping, singing, courting each other with their song, and you look up. They are in love. Their song is not for you. They do not see you, only each other. You walk.

You breathe. The scent of fragrant blooms fills the air, and you smile. You're happy though you know it's not for you that the flowers release their perfume, honeysuckle and rose, not for you do they burst in colors, painting reds and violets and yellows over green. You walk.

You see mother and father. They see a beautiful daughter, a prodigy, a treaty. You part you lips and tell them that you love them. They do not hear you. They do not see you. You walk.

You feel the spirits of the forest, of the trees. They whisper to each other in their own little world. Their leaves brush against each other, telling secrets and sweet everythings. They do not like you, an interloper into sacred grounds. They are not like you. You are not welcome here. You walk.

You walk, and there he is. A prince. He does not look at you but at himself. He thinks and ponders. He reads. He does not sing. He does not speak. He does not love. You leave.

You are dead.

The forest is still there. You walk out of the walls of the tower and into your mind. You still feel the wetness of the ground and see only in greens, though you wonder why everything seems paler. You walk.

You hear the birds again. Do they mourn for you? No. They never saw you. You look up once more and see their children. They sing, but for not you. It will never be for you. It's hard to walk.

You breathe. Your lungs fill with fog and flowers. There are no white lilies for your death. Instead brilliant daffodils, coquettish daisies, even elegant red roses in bouquets of their own peek through the green. You smile, but it doesn't matter. You never existed for them. It's hard to walk.

You see mother and father, still majestic and young. They have no tears for you. They never knew you. It's hard to walk.

You feel the spirits of the forest, but they are unfamiliar. They never acknowledged you, for you never were. Did you actually think that they would? It's hard to walk.

But you do, and there he is still. You wonder why he does not come to save you. You wonder why you are still here. You fall.

You are waiting.

The forest, the birds, mother and father, the trees, a prince, you. Are they real? You do not know. All you feel, all you hear, all you see, all you taste, all you smell is gray. You cannot walk.

You lie and wonder in this clouded wasteland.

Did this story ever begin?

Will it ever end?

Phantom lips touch yours. You wake. There is no one there.

Tick Tock. The curse is set. Tick Tock. The spell is broken.

If you are nothing to them, do you really exist at all?

You are empty.