The awake

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

im an insomniac....and most of my more "interesting" writing is at night. so here's one from a few days ago.

There are these constant reminders that what I feel isn’t true. That I’ve pretended to be this for someone else. And the silence is so heavy. My breathing slows and it becomes hard to produce any sound or movement. I hear the maddening buzz of a fly dying just inside my window. Only covered for brief moments by dull thunder. The wind sighs and moans in its loneliness. Trying to prove its existence to all those who lie awake in such a dark hour. Disturbing the resting of the leaves and calling for acknowledgement of life. The streets lay silent in calmness and calamity. Feeling sick to the core with stillness. The street lights glow in disapproval of the utter darkness. A void attempt to produce life in such lifelessness. The clouds perch high above the heads of wicked beings. Trying to cage the world from the universe. Creating the permanence of reality. This being more of an underworld than a world.

And again my head turns to the fly. I feel remorse and wish to end its suffering and prevent the further loss of my mind with the constant torment. Perhaps I will have to learn to embrace the sound of death. And recall the insignificance of such a creature. The lightning penetrates the complete darkness of my room. Lighting it completely and then darkness and light and dark. And again. Flashes of pulsating energy pierce the sky. Punishment it seems to be for the overbearing clouds. Stabbing them unforgivingly with enough electricity to power the whole state for a few minutes. I cover my eyes in preparation for the next blow. I feel threatened by the presence of light. And terrified that it knows my secrets and wants to rid the world of me. To take me from it to save those I’ve hurt. The rain drops are like tiny spies sent by the light to search out its prey. Wherever the water does not meet the ground is where the victim lies waiting.

I put my hand up to my window. Not touching the surface but hovering my warmth next to its cold. I can feel it sucking the heat from my palm. I laugh at its lack of competence. Wanting in a way for it to succeed at ripping my soul right from my flesh. I press my hand into the window. I lick the tear from my lips not noticing that it had been produced. I wonder if the rain has captured me and the water from the sky is now running down my empty face. As the lightning moves closer the dread starts to rise. The flash of purple white light forces my hand to move swiftly away from the glass.

A small part of me wishes for something else. I suppose I felt a connection with the wind. How we both cry out in hopeless loneliness so late. But now, I’m not content with the wind’s support. I’m not able to maintain myself by letting the coldness overtake my body. I want something else. Too many nights I’ve let the color drain from my eyes and felt my skin turn gray. Too many times I’ve listened to the dying fly on my walls. At night, I lose my mind. And by daylight I suppress the memory of the past eight hours. But it’s no use. Pointless to beg for an unachievable relief. Painful to recall the unanswered pleas. Sometimes it’s all just too much.


Submitted: March 18, 2012

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