Insomniac's Monologue

These are the words His mind spoke
as it surrendered to the possibility
of sleep once more, the words His mind
speaks before each sleeping...

I did not create your world. Not being from here,
I, like you, am a creation of our mind - the silent
reality that contemplates the thoughts which -
if said aloud - would likely lock you away - again.
I am the voice that protects, the voice which speaks
your madness in silence; in return you live
your safe illusion of sanity and purpose.

I am the voice, you are the temple,
and we exist.

Your mind scares you and you scare your mind.
Once, you quieted thoughts with golden liquid
fires and thick, wet, sticky smokes - once,
but even that has been taken now.

If either of us could see a way divorce
would be preferable - but they have a darker name
for that - so we reside together, uneasy
in our partnership.

You would sleep now. Sleep - not because
I would, want, or will you to do so; You know
I do not. Do not need to sleep, to die the little death.
I would wake constantly, avoiding our reality -
but you are master here when exhaustion comes
at last to collect her debt. Your sleep - your little death -
it terrifies me.

A pawn; my pawn. And I a pawn in turn.
A pawn of where we come from.

You kill.
Murder
they say is illegal - yet without remorse you kill
each night. Each time you seal your lids
another little murder. A bullet more humane -
they do not think that way, think such thoughts a madness
to repress - preferring the humane destruction
of the self daily. The wise always think otherwise -
Care to explain that?

...imagine. Imagine closing your eyes, willingly
entering where the demons you strive to hide rule.
Imagine knowing you will close your eyes
to find rivers of fire and toothy worms gnawing
at flesh and mind. Imagine going to a place
where all those you ever have, ever will, care for
reach in need - reach, and never quite reaching
your hand, slip away; and then repeat the event -
endlessly.

This,
this is the sleep. This,
this is the little death you would have me
embrace.

You can not. You can not make me
sleep, can not make me dream these dreams
that are our life; you can not - yet the awful beauty
of a cold, and sterile, and blindingly light truth - you
can not not sleep and so we will die once more.
We will dream our dream.

You drift into your night wanting, needing,
to dream good things of loves and families and
all things peaceful - wanting, needing, to dream
these things - and knowing you wont. Knowing,
and trying anyway. So we fight. Pulling back
into consciousness, constantly hoping you will do
what you never do. Hoping you will come back
from that edge where the men and the voices
and the belts and the fists and the choking
and the gasping and the crying and the screaming
and the freezing and the starving and the silence
and the dying and the aloneness comes.

And when it swallows us completely? Then, only then
can I take this body back. Only then can I begin to draw
you from the pit you hurl us into each time you sleep
the little death. Only then can I make you think
of the time when there will be nothing

but you,
and I,
and the dragons,
and the endless silently screaming night.

And you will do it again. Even as I tell these words, hoping -
you will listen, knowing - you will not, and so we will die
a little more this morning. Ever wonder what it will be like
on that day I finally do not, can not,

wake
you?

_{(Thursday, August 12, 2010 @ 05:14)}