Nightmare of your own choosing

I often wondered why I would walk into spaces and find them littered with fragments of memories. Half burnt letters, singed at the edges, sticky with soot. Letters that I had written. And later set on fire. Just like my soul, that seemed on fire. As if my innards were simming in a putrid yellow of disease. And oh it was rotten, smelly and putrid. My mind was like a labyrinth. Where the actual and imagination sometimes switched seats. If you're loose in that maze, could you trace yourself back? Safe from the demons of my created conscious. Only if it were that simple, I would have washed your laughter from my reality long back. The day the twisters caught hold of my thoughts were the worst. I was waking up with a bitter aftertaste in my mouth, not knowing if this pain I was feeling was indeed my own or maybe you, far off, were living a nightmare of your own choosing.