In the night, the sky looks down with benevolent eyes and allows the sleep-demons of fear and lingering wonder to feed upon your restfully, fitfully slumbering form.
When one wakes up in the small hours before the sun rises and nothing seems quite actualized, as if the fleeting pictures of a dissolved reality come creeping to your eyes, still-frame by still-frame, there are times when we are tousled out of a deep and dreamless sleep and wonder why all mankind fears death so. Or we come running into wakefulness, chasing Shangri-La into the slipping slope and sit in profound silence, and ask why the heavens were turned upside-down and shaken until we fell out of it. In love with sleep, myopia of the opiate dream has pursued me into my own and there's no hope in escaping. And when I make my declaration to the world, it's nothing more than a feverish mutter of the deluded wanderer.
How many times have I said I've fallen in love forever? Only to withdraw back into the bored world of the indifferent exhausted careless masses. And never really in love enough to manifest it in the physical; my rose-white childhood is as pristine as if it were encased in ancient amber, and only this tired mind of mine has grown into a flesh and fully blooded rose-red womanhood. I love the preserved perfectness of knowing that no one else loves me quite like I do, and no one else knows my small and evil faults that I hide behind the painted screen. Except now, I wish that trees would weep to be human when they hear my proclamations of love; the Sun would scorch the earth in breathless excitement and more than anything else in the world, I him to know that I have a deep well inside me, and it's secret and dark and goes way down to the unwarmed waters of the undisturbed ocean where things flit in and out of sight, scary and alone. I want to tell you, but I'm so afraid you'd shatter every perfect ideal that's the construct of my brain. In my head I already know you, and my heart can't weep it's petal-soft tears when it knows that both she and I were rather wrong, and mostly because I'm deeply enamored of myself. But all that's changing now. I don't seem to think I'm beautiful enough, clever enough, intriguing enough, good enough to keep and deserve his affections. I most like to be adored in worshipful indulgence, but I find myself doing that for you.
You make my heart hurt just to think you're on out there in the wide world without me.
