I try to hold onto my hopes, dreams and desires. As the days grow shorter, and the nights longer, I find that sliver of hope that kept me going start to fade. I clutch my blanket around me tighter, ignoring the clock that says I must leave my bed. I ignore the life outside my doors in favour of living inside my own personal hell. I know what’s wrong, and I know how to fix it; I just lack the desire to do anything about it. I wonder, as I watch the trees and plants dying around me, when I will be counted among that number. When will those leaves, falling from the sleeping Oak, cover my headstone? Will they gently warm my remains with their decaying blanket? Or will they instead trap my soul forever in their icy hold? The heats of summer have passed me by, the cold blank of winter soon to be upon me, and all that remains inside is the skeletal remains of my soul, bare of my youthful desires and dreams. Soon, these cold memories will consume me in a world of white, and I will lose myself to the madness.