Where Am I?

Words can pour out like a storm,
A flood with no ends,
But little do you know the truth
From which it stems;

The lies, the betrayals, the blankness,
The paper bare and the ink running dry,
There are words and words
But no real truths, just lies.

Blank to a point where everything is white,
Blank to a point all you want is the black,
Comfort of dark wings light upon your shoulder,
The raven's call for death becomes louder;

There is no process,
Just empty white,
All that is light is not good,
Without process there is no life;

I think therefore I am -
So with no stable thought
With no brough to catch hold on
In this infinite torrent of hateful numbness:

Where am I?

You know me best.
Tell me where I am.