The Fading Day Reflects

[the_wanlorn]

I can't sleep, and it's making me cry. I'm suddenly understanding the drive some people have to consume and consume and consume until there's nothing left of themselves. Their lives are painted across my eyelids, their thoughts are etched across my pupil in ink the color of a dying day. Remember that promise I made? You have no idea how often I wish and wish and wish with all my heart, how often I click my heals together and chant a magic chant, how often I want to go back and erase that promise from our memories. So easy, so soothing, so beyond my reach. Sometimes I'm afraid that with each word that flows out of my pen, another seeps from my ear, trickling down the edge of my neck to be lost on the dusty ground. Books fill me with words, writing drains me of the same. On the last morning we trekked down to the beach to watch the sun rise over the ocean. A foggy gray light spread across the open water as we realized the ocean faced in the wrong direction. Each word is etched into my memory. I never break my promises, but I never make promises. Never, unless I know I can keep them. (I don't know why people refuse to grasp that concept.) This one seemed easy enough, still giving me room to bend. My alarm rings and I have yet to sleep. The body knows, if the mind does not. A lament.