Sometimes I wonder if I am writing the right story. If the words on the page are more mine than those of the voices that haunt me in my sleep. They tug on my spirit dragging down my heart strings as one life is traded for another. This one feels different though. The whispering isn’t as strong, but the feeling is there, tearing at all that is inside of me. Like the beginning of the end.
It all withers before me, the looping of script pouring onto the page a testament to things that have been and yet to come. I remember some of them vividly, the stories playing over in my head. A cinematic representation of each breath. Even in sleep the work ticks on, another grain falls to the ending until the top holds no more. Was it a moment wasted? Was it an opportunity passed by as the body rests while the mind races on?
Some would fear the feeling, trying their best to escape the inevitable. I have no fear, aside from the suffering part. I’m okay with the end. It is the process of getting there that makes my mind cringe and nerves twitch. And so once again I wait for darkness to swarm. I wait for the cold to creep into my limbs until it all fades away and I am once again all and no more.