On fearing the night

Reflections on insomnia

Evening approaches and you feel like you've been waiting for it for an eternity - staring at an invisible clock in your mind's eye, the plain rhythmic ticks of which echo through your ears. Am I imagining this? You question to yourself. Or is it reality? What does reality mean anyway if this is at least, at most rather, my own. As the sky darkens into its pit of blue, a different pit in your stomach awakens. For unlike others, you are not lulled by the night's shadow, but repelled, agitated, stirred like the stormy sea with which it shares dark fearful form. The darkness is the very nothingness at the heart of all being perhaps. For Sartre: possibility and imagination. That is certainly true for those indulging in dream-land. But for us nocturnal creatures, our heads ache with anxiety; fear and trembling. We see that all time is just time - there is no true day or night, morning and evening.

[Untitled]

I sit and watch, expressionless, 

The mind that was once mine

Dissolve,

Devolve,

Into its ugliest.

Its most strangling. 

The noose it forms around my neck 

A boa-constrictor.

But I am not worried.

I know my fate

As Eve.

Ruminations

I chew and chew 

On you

Thoughts

Analysing you with my tongue

Until you

Turn to paste and I

Can't breathe.

You revolt me

But I can't escape

Your taste.

I'm not even sure what

That taste

Is.

Bitter, metallic, guilt.