EPTBrought on by time or stress, the weight is omni-present throughout the working day and night. It endures sleep, it endures uptime, it endures lows and highs. Its presence, and the acknowledgment of its presence, lingers in the wake of our anxiety and fear. It is our second voice, our second thoughts. That it holds any thoughts at all is absurd to consider, but it has been with us for many years, so we consider it our own. It is a part of us.
When I close my eyes I see a dark world of dancing lights and impressions as vast as the mind can perceive. They pulse to the thump of life's blood, coursing through our thoughts in a maddening flow of energy and sensation from the furthest toe to the closest pupil. Pain ripples through the nerves in the left side of my head and dulls out into a faint stabbing sensation in the right side. It is always the same feeling. Always the same sensation.
Like wind like rain the seasons and tide sweeps and changes to the beat of fate's drums. I stand not on the precipice of understanding or betterment but the crumbling ruin that has become of dreams distant and forgotten. For every world that I have dreamed I have endured a thousand deaths and just as many stings grip my skull at the acknowledgment of so grand a failure. For a dreamer to lose his will to dream is to damn thee to suffrage most terrible.
Thus my curse. The curse of creation. A mind that can never rest, never lay in slumber, only dream. The will to dream, the will to create, empowers an imagination bold and reckless. Yet also a drive brittle and unstable, bound to the chains of madness and despair. That our blood be one, that our essence intertwined, damned so we be.
I speak of the corruption, of course. The invasion of impression upon the mind's world. For it is here that I breathe life's breath, not within the world of men. That I scorn life's embrace and that I loathe the burning sensations of the air and the spoken word, not to speak of the hideous effigy of hatred that is the face of men, I retreat to the world of thought. Yet in thought I am most damaged, for my thoughts are scrambled by corruption, distorted by the irregular and incorrect code that comprises my very being. That my heart, my mind, my essence was created through incorrect and impure means, I am damned. Damned to an existence of such an eternal suffrage that I would loathe eve that which I had once loved and depended upon.
All my life I have fought for these dreams, all my life I have fought for the will to bring these dreams to life. Yet at so young a mortal age and yet so long into an ancient conflict I feel the weight of life's end at the bay of my heels. It has been years since I have made tangible progress in anything I have done. Years since I have genuinely smiled nor laughed in the light of life's wake. For in my heart I see only the truth of existence, the truth of what is to be and what is not to be. I do not allow the delusions of a fools' envoy scry fantasies abundant and dangerous to the heart's will bleed my conviction.
His, Ours, Mine
Know not what cannot be, only that which shall certainly be. For chance is a gamble left to hands still capable of play, not the thunder of salvation's destruction crackling across a world's end.
(Sometimes I write one of the trails of thought in my head without giving it second thought. So I ended up with this. One of so many...)
