017/365

Wide awake. I’m restless tired. Thoughts with arms outstretched hold the clock’s hands in place.

Still.

Unmoving.

The room’s obscure silhouette terrain entertains red weary eyes while eternity rolls by. Sickly imagery plagues my weak drained mind. Sinister in nature. They’re haunting. Frail hallucinations formulated by the buried truths. The ones I refuse to acknowledge.

These walls are persistent with their illusions. They’re confusing. Faded narratives tell fuzzy stories. And morph into something else entirely. Too fast to draw conclusions from, there is no concrete fact in these visions.

With no other stimulation above, the world from below rises. Its inhabitants loud and chaotic. Methodically, they proceed to break what’s left of me. Tearing my will down is all they hope for. Opportunists who’ve waited for a lack of distractions to raise their voice of dissatisfaction. Hungry their glowing eyes glare from the deep beyond. Waiting for a spotlight. For control of the vessel.

Freedom is synonymous with tunnel vision.

Trapped within these walls I wait for the light. For the updraft of hope to lift the vail of dark. To spark intention and purpose. To calm the unpleasant barks. I wait for shape to be regained and the abstract universe of the night to fade into the practical world of the day. Which I then waste away.

And then I await night.