There is an emptiness so profound that it fills me so entirely. It wracks my body with pain and drives me to distraction. In the stillness of the night, I hear the echoes of my past, waves of regret washing over the shores of my memory. I am tortured by all the times I lacked the courage to embark on even the simplest of endeavors. The mercy of sleep is just a promise on the honeyed lips of a painted woman beckoning from a distant window I can barely see through the haze of my own doubt and confusion. She calls to me and I long to answer but the road is obscured by the crags of self-abuse and the vines of self-reflection. Each day, I attempt to traverse the distance from the shores of my memory to the embrace of slumber and I end up mired in this miasma of mental gymnastic which leads me on a tour of insomnia which can last for days at a time. When sleep does come, the dreams I find are far worse than anything I experience during the waking hours. Any semblance of order or logic melts away into surrealism and I am swallowed by horrific cliches of art and cinema. What should be sweet relief is merely the embrace of a serial killer.
Posted on: Fri, 30 Aug 2013 06:48:43 +0000
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