Stone Steps of the Asylum - Van Gogh draft

I worry about all that stands, from stone steps to trees, the friction of those who forever pass by, held spaces between the sky and the ground. Whether a view could rush forward, engulf my airways, leave me choking - unless I talk to it calmly, lay it permanently in place upon a canvas, so stillness can be captured. The energy of insanity polarises as all there is moves too quickly. The stone steps lead nowhere until we arrive. Do we follow the sun at different speeds, or have different suns? I whisper to the trees to teach me to grow, ask how steps endure me, retain their integrity; question how walls contain me. Will they crack under the strain? Does everything know how I feel, but, more sensibly than I - wait until no one is watching to rid itself of angst?