Found in a Book from Long Ago

I feel dead. San sits at her desk and writes all that she feels.

I feel dead.

She grimaced to herself. This is pathetic. She gets up from her chair and shrugs off her shawl before moving out her bedroom door.

Where am I going? Nowhere, really.

Her footsteps don't have any purpose. She goes downstairs and lays down on the daybed, but soon slugs back up and continues to walk.

Purpose. She laughs. What is purpose?

Exactly.

San slinks to her knees, then drops to the floor. Why get up? She stops to think of an answer. There is no reason to get up. Honestly and truly.

For someone who likes to function, I really don't get enough sleep for that status. 5:20 in the morning and still waiting to go to bed. Heh. Good luck with that one. Too much caffiene, anticipating a night's worth of work and... well... this. I figured I would start this sooner but, as you well know about this stranger, movies call and distractions beckon. This stranger wishes to remain a stranger to even herself, to be honest. The words that come out of her brain typically scare her a bit and tend to try and rhyme when she knows they shouldn't or won't or don't want to by themselves until she keeps typing and writing the script for this dizzy romance of syntax and verbs. Nonsense is the game, are you ready to play for the hit of the night or the dawn of this bright day that comes to destroy my peace, joy in the clothing of shadowing figures that haunt and disfigure my attention?
No words. No voice. Just tugs from all sides of my brain to my chest to my neck that wishes that someone would hold it. Cry on it. Beat to the sound of the pulse in it. Why should I be alone this morning? I'm not, though, don't you see? There's love around me, capturing every glance I take and move I make until I've no choice but to take a peek and see. Majesty.
His words are honey and his walk is of dew. The morning brings his calling and the night he subdues. Within each breath, he gives life and glory. Within each swipe, destruction meets itself.

Come Back, I Want To Say Goodbye.

Why don't you exist to me anymore? Your idea lingers behind my eyes but never make it to my life. The thought of your name still brings a savory lust for the times of past to my lips, and yet I can never taste them. I wish I knew I wish I could hear what you would say. Honest be, to me you are a ghost of rosen glass. The dye must go at last, you should know you hold that key. My best memory from you is the smile that sighed something I knew I could never have. If words could kill, that 'if' would slip as smooth as silk into my side. And if I thought of you, what then? And if you said a word, what then? And if I came to call, what then? Would I see the years' work on our photograph hanging in your memory? Perhaps sunlight has faded the colors to gray, or darkness has preserved them in its own gross static.
I wait for the day you come back to the world. When I hear your voice over the telephone, I'll believe. When I see your smile hiding in front of me, you will be real. And when I feel your distance once again, you will be gone forever, and I will be able to sleep.

Poison enters my life stream tonight, slick as a knife, cool as metal settles into my veins. The quick desecration of ego slits a quick nick in self perception. It never seems to hurt at first, always over-estimating the ability to 'handle the truth.' Yet it haunts. And as the thought lingers and stains the brain around it, all you have left is an ink stained mind with the words of condescension. Blood boils with frustration of the... truth? Flaws explode on the screen behind my eyes and parade through every word. Truth? A truth. Someone's truth.
And as the ink flows through my fingers and into pixels on the page, I breath. I reason. I ration. I think. I sink into relative calm. The peace from before will not be gotten for a length to come, but for now, rest. For now, rest.