… and allow me to describe to you the deceptive nature of my suspended consciousness.
It is a discomforting time …those moments approaching sleep spent lying in a state of delirium and insomnia … the day has ended and I am no closer to my last. I live a provisional existence.
I long for mortality, for my body to absorb my soul. The cure is as temporary as the illness.
Another horrible night denied a peaceful resting place.
My life is trapped in a coffin …
As I recycle the air, it becomes difficult to breath, a sort of asphyxiation. Each breath is shorter, the pace limited by a lack of space. The mind races to a panic.
Breathe in …
The nails splintered from the constant clawing at the casket cover … dried and cracked, the skin peels and bleeds.
This is torture.
The muscles cramp, long dehydrated from a lack of life.
Involuntary spasms …
… an existence spent in a chasm.
Breathe out …
I am the living. I am the dead. The eyes are open. The eyes are closed. There is no considerable difference between the two.
I began the night on my back, flipped over to my stomach, then tossed to the side. Following this sequence, with each passing hour
… the cycle moving faster …
.. the pain becomes unbearable with each futile position.
My shoulders are sore, my stomach twisted, my hip bone pierced by pine.
My life of malaise forever unbalanced in perdition …
There is no comfort under such conditions!
Stretch the fingers
Twisted knuckles knurl
I clench them to a fist and raise it in anger punching my depressed ceiling.
I can feel the pang of hunger, the lust for life, the need to feed.
I must awaken
I am living in anxiety, longing for my life of suffering to close with the lid of the coffin. My heart is consumed in misery, a dark curse, the pestilence of a bloodline given to me not by choice. I was broken in 1684, a day when two fractured lives expected to form a beautiful quiescence. Such love and passion, torrid, sucking each other dry, my life entrusted to her mouth. I can still taste the saliva pouring from her pursed lips along my neck to the terminal destination of my collar.
Clenching my eyes, entranced, the ecstasy of the moment tastes of sugar cane.
Now, I cannot even see my reflection
Closure is always just on the periphery, but I fold life in the palms of my hands like a locket preserving a distant memory. The lows outweigh the highs. Life is to suffer. Time is an unfortunate characteristic of the universe. Everyone is so distant. I vainly look into the mirror, desperately seeking own gaze, yet I find nothing.
Torturously immortal, I traverse this village, my countenance shrouded in darkness, and interact with it inhabitants under the guise of a hopeless romantic. I extend idolization to the desperate. I have broken hearts. It is almost as if I am spreading some disease. I am sorry…I did not know misery is contagious.
The sun rises, the sun sets. They move with my heart, cycling through days …
…. but I am still.
I feed on agony, watching them come and go, giving up to me, throwing their desperate selves. Each hand desires a little more.
I dream of haunted things …
…. infecting memories, digesting hearts
How much are you willing to give? How many times will you wash your pillow case? Change your sheets? What is left? You fall in love, this unique snowflake of an anecdote, your ultimate drug, the high that moves you beyond the quasars.
Would it be ironic, for death to stalk every loving relationship, the resultant separation and abandonment.
Love is fleeting. The emotion leaves.
It is desire, the ambition, the lust…
It is torture and grief.
The worst of my situation is drinking from the cup of pain and suffering, the essence of human malady …
… until I am put to rest.
A life of failure, destined to purgatory, my victims have become a source of entertainment, each a stepping stone on the path of my absurd existence.
And all I wanted was to love and to be loved.
I hold the pencil, the eraser … and chronicle their lives. I have made so many mistakes.
My dear …to love me would be to drive a stake through my heart, to end my misery, but you wear your heart on your sleeve. You are the cliché victim, so hopeless and beautiful. I am so sorry for the unbearable life of suffering I will bring upon your soul. I can only hope you may forgive.
If I died tonight I would only have one regret:
That I was unable to show how much I really love you.