In The Pale Lamplight
In the pale lamplight, I gaze into the depths of madness.
Alone, I wander without purpose.
I can see the others. I reach out to touch them,
Longing for connection, but they are like shadows
Dancing on the edges of my perception.
Forms without substance.
In the pale lamplight, I remember a time when I touched life.
I held it close and caressed it lovingly.
I miss how I felt then: Forceful, Invincible.
A dark voice whispers in my mind.
Always there. Always whispering.
It draws me away from all the good things.
In the pale lamplight, I stare blankly at the empty page.
I am surrounded by a hundred-thousand ideas.
They sparkle like fireflies in the darkness.
The will to create: Both beautiful and fleeting. Both intoxicating and fickle.
It manifests and then fades to nothing in the span of an eye blink.
I am left at the mercy of turbulent memories.
In the pale lamplight, I feel neither fear nor happiness.
Only the eternal gray of apathy.
I remember what is was to love and hate,
The horror of pain and the blessed release of ecstasy.
I want more than anything to experience them again,
But I am so tired.
As time goes on, I come to suspect that it no longer matters.
I just wish I could feel something.