Monday, October 16, 2006
We are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
-'Finish' by Charles Bukowski.
To be sleepless, as the night passes. Nothing can be worse than too much, too much silence. The world is dead with sleep. All that is left, is the inadequacy of your own blighted presence. A spot of black in a world of white. You must be careful. You must be very, very careful, of the way you move, the way you think, the way you feel, the way you speak- you know how it brings you to places you can never return from, places of tempting, tragic beauty, too dark, too deep and too heavy; how they try to drown you, how you long to drown, gently, without making a single sound. Not now. Please. Hold still. Be strong. Not now. Not now. Not now.
Posted by Faith at 4:15 am