Sleeper.

Delirious

Is how I am feeling as of 12:31 am.

The very birth of a Saturday

Is happening now,

All shrouded in Friday night's

Revelry, sleeplessness,

And for some, the drunkenness.

And so I am holding the infant day

In my quaking hands

As my eyelids threaten to collapse and cut me off

From this reality

Into some sphere and discourse that is not my own,

Propelled forward by dreams.

I am afraid to touch the day,

This helpless,

Reckless,

Livid thing.

I am unawares as to how to treat

This daily rebirth.

Although I live through it often,

I am usually blissfully oblivious to the fact

That a new day has begun.

And we must leave behind the old day,

All the feelings and events and mishaps.

"Absurdities" as Thoreau put them.

Now, it is Saturday.

Now,

I am in the mood to stare listlessly at a pink-tinged horizon,

And carpe diem,

Living each moment is better than dying each moment.

But I feel so constricted.

Conflicted.

I do not feel whole.

If the air was warm,

I would stay up, early into the morning,

And greet the dawn in an attempt to make myself feel whole again.

Somehow, I feel so utterly alive in the fresh, warm air at dawn.

With dew on the lawns and the sun catching on the dewdrops to reflect in

Some spectacular show of light.

Something to make me silent,

So perplexedly happy.

But it is winter and I am torn,

Torn and nearing the end of my day,

As this new one begins.

I will blindly sleep into the day,

And wake up feeling

Empty

Once again.

The highs

Always lead to

The lows.

And somehow I have been

Utterly crushed.

Ruined and afraid.

Afraid to write and sing and speak

And look at the world with my own eyes.

Seeing things for only what they seem.

My heart has been momentarily torn from my chest,

And it beats alone, as I flounder for air,

For purpose.

Until it will finally return to me.

And I won't be so afraid, as I am, momentarily.

And while I am underwater,

Deaf and bleeding from where my heart did breathe,

And shall go on breathing,

The pressure is devastating.

I am not all that I wish to be.

All that I seem.

Or may desire.

'Truths' fall heavily from the sky

Like stricken birds,

And plunge into me, underwater.

Suddenly,

Everything is not what it seems.

Perhaps it's my sleepiness.

It could be the weather

Or the very lame film I just watched.

But I'm very sure that something somehow shifted

And made me feel partially empty.

Lacking and cold.

And dear one,

Distant star on the never-ending horizon,

So far that I will never, ever catch you.

But why is it so?

That we all grasp so desperately for

What we cannot have.

The one thing out of my reach,

Is the one thing I pine after.

"Love is a sickness, full of woe".

How horribly sad.