Another day barrels rapidly towards nightfall. Another day squandered. As unforgettable as those that precede it. Yet I yearn for those midnight hours, the devil's hours, that time of night when sleep beckons, even so I resist. Calm in those precious moments. The howling wind well-nigh serene in its ferocity.
I fear my countenance is slipping into the abyss. Trepidation gripping its arctic fingers around my heart and compressing the last inkling of vigor out of me. This dreadful suspicion that I have become a ghost wandering the halls of my own life is entirely debilitating. No longer able to recognize whether I am dead or alive.
Gripped by the paralyzing fear that I am somehow running out of time. Unable to stop the incessant ticking of the proverbial clock. Tortured endlessly by my own self-doubt and self-loathing.
I am drowning, gasping for air. Reaching out for help. But there is no-one reaching back to seize me and raise me from perdition. All I see is some twisted-faced, grotesque version of myself. A wicked doppelgänger. Gazing down at me. A malicious grin mocking me from above. Watching me slip further beneath the surface.
Is all of this, this existence, this reality, this mise-en-scène, little more than an exercise in futility?
- M xx
