Sunday, October 14, 2012
There is something about sitting in the dark, remorseless from lack of sleep that makes every silly pain sharpened. As if our daily machinations dull our sensitivities to the inevitable gravitas that weighs upon each of us. Each day is a weight of experience that we carry, each moment of life another ounce of wisdom, thus the eventual slowness of our movements, the bending of our backs as if we drag ourselves to decrepitude.
It is to these morbid thoughts that I find myself on this dark and dreary night. Left alone to my thoughts, I lean to towards angst. I feel a keenness of emptiness, bereft of purpose other than to find a good night’s rest, I lack greater ambition for the moment.
Instead, I find myself, nay; I find my soul, uttering a soft keening and a susurration of surrender to admit that some things are forever lost to me. My youth, my vigor, my mind will eventually melt to time. Yet, as my conscience seems to have resigned its hopes for some mad last affair, my heart still seems to natter on believing that love is never lost, simply misplaced and will one day be found again.
I do wish my heart would shut up and let me sleep. Because that constant war between my heart’s hopes and my mind’s reality, leaves me torn, like pages from a journal full of lies.
Melodrama is the greatest injury this night when my only wish is to sleep.