"Neon Citadel" by Isaac Ferguson

Blurred, the room moves, sounds compressed, my body separate from my mind. I step further into the world. Cars flash by, people speak a language I know but doesn’t register. Concrete walls, cement ground. The city breathes louder than me. My head hurts, feels like it’s ringing louder than the church bell just outside of town. Something wasn’t right, the often clear air was suffocating, people looked at me more and more perturbed, strangers became familiar, the city grew taller but my own self became weaker and more minuscule in its corporate masquerade. I walked further down the road, the tree I saw every day, now only branches, leaves long dead. Construction tape walled it off like some dangerous animal, its branches calling out for something greater. It echoed my same injured scream. 

 

At the station, the train flies in, its rusted shell as hollow as the fortress I stood in. The fluorescent citadel stared down at me, jeering, as I ran from it. The rails below sang a chorus as I fled from my world, my problems. I looked back regrets drew close but as I turned around and felt the sun, all went silent, I was fully renewed.