Tuesday, April 12, 2016
Sleepless night's know my absence when I leave a trail of blank pages and trackless steps. And I'd be inclined to say that a night of sleep is a good thing, except that so many of them consecutively choke the voice of the mind, which begs dreams for tangible wreckage. But I find myself conscious. What a strange thing, one form of darkness yielding to another-- and I've been waiting for you to awaken. Less than patiently. In that "other" form of darkness, I streamed constant words of an outside existence into you methodically, hoping that when you awoke, you'd be directed toward the bread crumbs, leading to the exact moment we parted ways. Somehow it seems to have worked. I remember what a smile looked like before it cracked, and what a heart whispered in between its beating, and the sound of inspiration when it hits raw matter. I have thoughts to spill everywhere, and time to spill them. I have struck oil, only the syrup rushing to the surface is not oil at all, it's hope. I have soul. And I may not be a soldier, but I'll put up the good fight.