This is my world, as seen through a foggy window, when it's raining outside:

I am, for the most part,
not a part of this world,
nor am I a part of any other.

I belong, simply, to nothingness, not
to any one institution
or any one person.

No one knows just how deafening the silence can be
as it screeches and caterwauls,
gaining in slowly in decibles
every second of the day; as if

worsened on
particular intervals.

Yes, yes, it seems that

I am not dead,
yet I am not living.

That I am not asleep,
yet not fully awake.

That I am not in pain,
yet do not feel well.

That I am not frowning,
yet I am not smiling.

Yes, yes, it seems

that I am imprisoned
in a grayscale city bereft of its luster.