Sometimes the Darkness captures us all.
Sometimes the daylight is unforgiving.
Sometimes the comforting sounds of silence send me to that ethereal place in my imagination where I love to dwell, and muse, and think, and gently let the somnambulant tick tick ticking of my alarm clock move me into a state of restless calm.
As I sit in the Darkness the boredom washes over me; the melancholic transcendency of thought numbing my external reflexes. The day's worries fret in a hurried fashion across the forefront of my mind as the exhaustion and nausea create a bundle of fatigue that renders me useless within this particular passage of time.
Flicking the rough edge of the lighter. Sparking delicate puffs of smoke into the silence. I watch the sparks explode in succession with the anxious trembling of the detached thumb.
The dark, like the warmth of the raging flame, is comforting. A bat in my cave I sit and mull over misery itself; the black crow perched on my shoulder to remind me of difficult times where the world is never fine and dandy and something is
always
missing.
Striving for perfection is an unattainable goal; one I have taken upon myself to pursue. Today's wanderings spun me in a dizzy haze of confusion yearning for a sense of completion: a project.
I gather dusty tomes from bookshelves scattering markers, pages, notes, pencils across my desk, my floor, my bed. I splay across the dull soft mattress chewing at the flakes of skin on my stinging lower lip.
Words flash. Delicate puffs of smoke. They disappear as quickly as they arose and spiral upwards into a cloud of ambiguous confusion.
The night is drawing to a close. Daylight is arising.
With a heavily empty sigh the candle flickers out, the last ream of smoke dancing and disappearing in the grey light.
