Of sleep and silence

I think about how the world might understand my silence, how they would see into my heart and know, that it is not my own, but ours, and not see me as something damnable, but only a reflection in the primordial pond. For if they knew anything at all, they would know there is nothing left to say.

Time is against us, my dear. We cannot run from it, nor can we hide. Death has a voice. An echo in the silent depths of the abyss from which he reaches out to grasp at our very souls, pluck us screaming and mad from this life, mercilessly, for mercy's sake itself, a gift.

Silence, the natural state of things. It was silence who answered my prayers when I had no one left. It was silence who witnessed every great achievement I have made. It was silence who guided me. And silence who will hold my hand as I take my final breath. And only silence who will remember me when I am gone.

But here I stir in madness. Learning lessons on how to die a clever man. Seeking out the shiniest pebbles along the shore, deaf, dumb and blind to the crushing reality of the human condition. The disease of existence.

Here I will wait in my little world. This house of obsession, this prison of hope, here I sit and eat the truth which I call my own flesh, even as it kills me, my only hope is to die a witness to perfect elation of the human spirit.. It must be hidden beneath the sternum. I haven't found it yet.

How I want to escape this place.
To slip into the warm bath of insanity.
To disappear into the bowels of time,
and forever be forgotten by these demons of the earth.