Little Miss Gloomshine

Testing again, for good measure.
Testing again, for good measure.
Testing again, for good measure.
Testing again, for good measure.
Testing again, for good measure.
Testing again, for good measure.
Testing again, for good measure.
Testing again, for good measure.
Testing again, for good measure.
Testing again, for good measure.
Testing again, for good measure.
Testing again, for good measure.
Testing again, for good measure.

Even with adequate sleep, fatigue is overwhelming.  Strange dreams keep me from peaceful slumber, jolting me back into the world of the living before my conscience has had time to be lain to rest.  I wake aching, incomplete.  The dull throb in my head breeding and perpetuating disjointed, cycling thoughts.  My limbs are heavy and my insides feel like a bird trapped in a cage a fraction of its size, as if I'd been lain in a shallow box and wet cement had been poured over me, molding to my body, seeping into my flesh and bones - fine, solid tendrils intertwined with my innards, crushing them.  The light shining in is bright and blurry - discernible rays shooting through the fog like spears, anchored in the floor around my bed, emitting a radiance which renders my vision imperfect.  Objects lose their lines and the distance between them becomes obsolete as they meld into one another through the haze, swirling specs of dust dancing around them.  Pressure in my ears, pushing outward, causes even silence to pierce, like innumerable poison tipped needles jabbing into my tympanum.

Many in my time, and of times before have described sleep as something akin to death.  If this atrocity crawling within and outside of my physical self is death, then I recant any expression of desire I've ever shown to become a part of it.

- M