I am pumping from so many wells that have dried up long ago. I am stuck in this endless game of catch between the past and future. Decency and the obscene. The world and the wild. The devil and God. I am hanging weightless in the balance, kicking but not moving, screaming but not being heard. This thing that is always sleeping within me, latent until woken. Then it feeds until it is full. Sleeps again atop the world it ruined. To all but me, this beast lay unexposed. Dormant until it rages again like a disease. I am in endless fog, living between particles. Breathing in thickness. Cannot focus, cannot find the words. Just sitting here, watching myself descend. Eyes sinking into skull. Chest sinking into lungs. Days get darker and nights get longer- the dark before the dawn is as bright as I can go.
Expanding around me forever, an infinite universe copies this world endlessly. The Gods of this realm read one script from a library of centillions, and every other dream is lost as mathematical collateral. In a boundless congealed mess of cosmic blood clots and countless dimensions deepening the bottomless well of reality, I, along with all of humanity, crawl and writhe on the deserted plane of the finite.
Sleep aids: the 8-hour suicide.
Hostile gazes burn holes in my skin. It is rush hour and I am a single person taking up a table suitable for four. Not welcome. It is time for me to go.
My waking hours ruminate on all past selves I have chosen to barter for this one. My slumber dreams of all the lives I have chosen not to live and now long for. In between, this mind revives things that have long ceased to live.