What if you looked inside you one day while staring at the leaves of the tree, seeing how they don't move wishing they were painted by the old painter in the cold who thought it was worth his life to see you want another day?

The image grows closer and clearer feathered by a pixel of darkness on all sides. The darkness disappears giving way to light, as you see the figure of lies and the truth, you wish it was bright instead.

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Within minutes the tree's leaves began to fall, their branches, transform. Some, muscular arms and some bloody whips, they come at me wanting to make me pay for everything from the littlest fib to the biggest conception of thought, all out of the Pandora's box.

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As my tears competed in size, I began to blur into my reflection, feeling angst, feeling my feet slipping off the edge of sanity. With every lash, came pain followed by arousal, a sense of freedom, letting go of every baggage in my life, letting the lashes sting off my skin, sucking the venom of life out of me.

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As I dropped the last bag, I fell to an ecstasy that only I know, that only I've felt and drifted off into a deep sleep where the tunnel was long, running towards a faint sound that sounded like the beginning of a Lounge Piranha song.

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The tunnel ended in a quake and I woke up in the corner of my shelf surrounded by my clothes, yet naked in salad of scars. Around me lay bits and pieces of my life strewn across, once flashbacks in a tunnel and now real in my room. Opening my eyes in a hope to think it was all a dream, I look in the mirror only to find the figure of lies and the truth.