In the dead of night, what jarring silence render futile all attempts at laying my head to rest. Though as silent as the world could be, the cacophony of fiends in my mind never seem to cease. Loud and clear they scream, such devilish things, only made more so by the quiet that enables it.
Yet to be rid of these static noises would be the equivalent of removing from me, a limb, an arm, a finger, a foot — a part of me most indispensable. These fiends are an extension of me, each one extrapolated from an undesirable trait, an unpleasant memory, an irksome emotion, tempting in me the most revolting of thoughts and actions. Except these thoughts that encourages my actions have become not so much repulsive as they are condoling. I pine for the end of each day, for my solitude and dark, dark ways.
At first, I supposed i could, if i had given greater effort, banish these bumbling voices that have overtime grown in strength and potent eloquence. With such fiery i had fought, and so it seemed that not all hope was lost. Yet it is most evident that i remain still, in this endless loop of shame, and guilt, and wanton self-destruction. It is an unchanging dance, practised to perfection, fluent in its execution and each sway, or leap, or twirl, enervates me to no end. Hope, is such a strange, strange thing. It hurts me more than my decaying heart. Had i had none to begin with… There are no words for desperate hopelessness. Had i had none, no longer would there be, every morning, my melancholic sight of the sun.
I have clamoured “Tired!” and “Enough!” and “Stop!” more times than i can count; but only, as always, only in my mind.
If my eyes are the windows to my soul, i wonder if any has peered in, deep and down below. And if so, can they see the emptiness grow; the nothingness that is to be, a life, a heart, a whole of me.