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.
