shuffled in my mind, stacked and dealt like missiles, i watch them crash and scatter in and out of my dreams, my chance to sleep whittling away with each brutal, merciless tick of the clock. i strain to think, each step dragged through a clinging pool of lead-like mud, my heart outpacing the clock, my breath reluctant and grieved, my lungs too abused to bear the burden of the burning, stinging air.

thistles and trees block my path, thorns tear great strips of angered flesh, my blood falling, filling my stomach like acid, a sweet, red cup of pain and my bones rattle and knock, smashed harsh and hard against each jagged, grinning rock hurled facelessly toward me. the eternal coward i whimper and whine and make my way unresisting ever deeper through the dark.

my sight distorted by too much light, too many flashing faces that flicker in and out at the edges of my vision, too many fears and expectations, too many eyes peering at me from the stage. the whispered screams which distract me or stamp my shadow with iron-booted hatred, crushed and scarred and misted memoried my tears trail out before me the forest crackles and burns my mind a stench awash with you i fall too much too much too much too much, (but secretly not nearly enough).

A Touch of Reality:

From my window I can see the church, it advertises salvation and hope and redemption, and frankly I'm in the market for all three, but I choose to shop elsewhere. It occurs to me, of course, that this may be a mistake, millions swear by the product and it's been around for years, but the appeal is lost on me. In the fridge are two cans of beer, a litre of sleep, but this is a route I take far too often and the path is becoming worn, so I'll look the other way. This, (typing a load of crap in an effort to paint a picture of how it feels to be stuck with the ugliest and most vile hours that exist), does nothing at all to help me sleep, but it doesn't make me more awake and at least it feels productive. If the average person sleeps eight hours a day and I manage only four then I'm awake an extra day and a bit each week, a little under sixty-one days each year - that's two whole months! Christ no wonder I feel so old :) But with an extra couple of months at my disposal, I should be able to acheive something, but the trick is getting my life all in one place - it just seems scattered everywhere at the moment, like I'm dishing it out in miserly little portions. I worked some night shifts the other week, (a rare experience indeed), and I watched some people sleep, but saw others who just lay there afraid in the dark. That's what insomnia is all about - it's fear for fear's sake, your consciousness creeps round on tip-toe, whispering in hushed tones because it's aware that it has no real right too be here. These moments remain secret because there's no-one around to share them with, but tonight I'll show them to you. It's 4 a.m., it's dark and quiet, but not serene. Laughter and friendship and peacefulness and love are all tucked snugly in their beds, and empty dispair gets a free run of the house. I lay there, wandering in and out of half-dreams that smother me, that rock me gently towards peace, then awaken me with a cruel, senseless jar. Cosiness deserts me and leaves me at the mercy of a dreadful clinging panic and the clock becomes a cheat and a nasty little thief. That's why God gave the night to the Devil.