Gray thoughts are the nastiest wardens.
It’s too easy to cower from them and crawl away in humiliation. My sentence seems unending, elongated by the minute. I gloom on and on until my release is made, but a crave for the smirk of the warden, the sharp chin of the warden, the defiant shoulders of the warden consumes me. Cannot I, too, play a part not victim to its game?
Might it be the simplest of places to scout, the head of warden, the mind that performs the very pout? The mind is where it all takes place; from start to finish, its whims rein.
Then, is glooming not just a function of the brain and thus a voluntary expression which could then be reversed by a just as voluntary suppression?
Such emotions only waver with the passing of time and the spontaneity of occurring events, all entirely out of my grasp as they are produced by any means other than myself. Within me, they exist; outside, they do not. Feelings can live only if there is a feeler.
This then means that it is with said feeler that the power resides. With said feeler, the choice then lies: to feel or not to feel.
Forces of nature can only procure objects outside the confines of our minds: the very home of all emotion. Nature bellows loudly every day, whirling and twirling from every canopy with philanthropy of to-be-sung songs and venomous dry-the-lung wrongs. It is a symphony of a conductor with no other contrary wills. It plays on; no note can be deemed false.

Yet, the omnipotent splendor is constrained to just that. It rules the world of the real. The fictitious happenings remain untouched.
The ultimate champion stands, with unparalleled power—the mind, a miracle, and I am only its dutiful laborer.
The mind in itself is an art. It does as it pleases without consequence, for the only results it can irrevocably enact are not within its own world but instead that of nature, embodiments, and the clear inferior. The mind is art, just as it is power. Feelings are the color with which we see and paint. A dull world would never be endeared to such a profound title as “world.” Thus, only a colorful one exists. A world of feelings, the very product of the brain and the brain alone.
There is power in this, and art, too. And, of course, above all, beauty. Nevertheless, it is this very thought that turns over this world.
If the mind has no imprint on the tangible world, it acts outside the confines of pressure and influence with the privilege of its separation from consequence. With this same rationale, another can be deduced about feelings, altogether distinct from the real world.
Feelings are a mere figment of the imagination.
Feelings are fleeting, the essence of presence all lost in their meaning.
Feelings are superficial, so trivial, cannot yield any semblance other than remembrance.
Feelings are lost, isolated and suffocated by the outside world turned to trying words.
Feelings are only a product of the mind.
That mind of mine thus holds all to hush what stirs me with fuss. The power is within me.
My feelings are temporary. My power is not. Power means control, and to control means to trump all else.
My feelings can wreak havoc and boil storms and brew fights next to gruesome sights alongside other blights as I stay stuck in this plight from day to night.
But my feelings are temporary, and my power is not.
So, I rule on, with prowess, a warden, above them all.