Here I am, yet again, I thought. So many cyclical nights and days. Moments in between have come and gone and still I feel an anchor keeping me in this place. Seemingly logical as it is, the very thought of staying in this middle ground drives me mad with the possibility of more. Have I stopped myself from dreaming? I awaken to a bitterness that clothes my heart in a sense of cool mystery. Clouded as it is, refreshing. I’m growing weary of it now. Although I choose, rather, to stay wrapped in its presence in these moments before my psyche and reality come fully into alignment and all that is sticks, and everything stays. Before those fleeting moments, I have a choice. I’m in the hallway and the doors are plenty, before awakening I can choose to open any of these doors that I so please. I toy with this idea, knowing that there will be no return upon entering, and no retreat will exist. There I will be, and so I await the perfect opportunity to merge with one of these haunting rectangles. I find myself always standing in front of the only one that’s locked. As pierced silence permeates and I draw a harsh and torn breath from the middle of my chest, I find peace in the light that touches the edges of my mind. Finally, I thought, something to kill the haze and bring me back from the void of disturbances. For now.
This place is haunted. My final interactions before sleep were tainted by the demons who lurk and await my weakest moments. Still I find their plight so dangerously soothing, petty as it may be. I watch intently as the darker corners of my dwelling dance with abstracted shadows. Each intimately ingrained with the strands of my mortality and reason. For every cell in me is pulled and drawn on by the eagerness they possess. But the reason itself vanishes when the ghosts reappear. Slyly they leap from one dwelling to the next, selling all their scorn to the well of light in me. Their twisted smiles turn upwards as they see the confusion hit me all at once. I find myself reeling downwards in a sea of perpetual lonesomeness. They carry off on their wretched backs the stories of things I once knew, once loved and believed in. And I praise them for this now, as I wish to not carry the memories of these repetitious burdens. I watched intently as these shy devils loitered in my living room, playing chess and watching me through slit eyes. I gave back nothing but the same piercing eyes and cold-blooded reproach. Darkened circles underneath, heavy and sleepless, mutilated within by the picking, turning and sifting. Momentarily they will stop and chant a song or mumble something to draw on my attention. I turn away and laugh them off. I criticize myself under my breath for falling prey when I know the game. They laugh at me for laughing. The exchange is tiresome, endless.
I stop feeling anything at all, slipping further into the void of nothing that I am and back to the hallway where it all felt infectiously altering. I prefer it here simply because the flow of life is not set in patterns and numbers where all of the workings are already completed and the path is freshly drawn, so easily seen. No mistake can be made on which way to turn when the arrows are all facing the same way. A free flow exists here in the chambers of my mind in which I am a part as merely thought and nothing of form. Leaving behind the thoughts drilled into my open mind, a liberation exists in knowing I’m separate from the harsh confines of a structured reality. Tainted by the disbelief, internalized destruction and disdain for the form itself. There is breathing room here. I stumble awake and find myself realms away, chasing dreams in sleepless rooms with locked doors. Looking for a key.