I cannot see through the opaque silence of the night,

But my thoughts are alight:

Hot with temptation,

Hissing —

White noise against the tympanic membrane.

I have yet to be overtaken by such a yearning

As one for something entirely fabricated by the machinery of my own imagination.

An elusive thread of consciousness

Unable to be grasped between these fingers;

It tugs at the filaments of my heart and

Spurs a sense of purpose,

Besting any tangible and measurable object or event

That might exist in the timeline of my being.

A primal drive toward someplace

To which I belong,

Where I long to be,

Though not a single footstep in my lifetime

Can be traced to such a destination.

An instant worth surrendering everything for:

To live it would complete me in such a way

That transcends all the grandeur, knowledge, and power

One could aspire to possess in a lifetime;

That I would never need

To see,

To feel,

To think,

To exist

Anymore.

Night and again,

I lose sleep to thoughts saturated with visions and emotions so vivid,

Feverish and tender,

Distant and nostalgic,

And torturously euphoric all at once.

My mind pulses with the urge

To give in to mournful tears

For being starved of a colour never known to any eye;

And to run away in hopes that,

In the hours when the air turns to ink,

The familiar streets beyond the threshold of my home

Would, by some means, lead to oblivion.

What I resent, more than the futility of tears and physical effort,

Is the knowledge that,

As daylight floods the earth and again illuminates my surroundings,

These rich conceptions of a sleepless mind

Have rendered my body hollow —

Shallow in breath

With a flickering heartbeat.

My nocturnal reveries evaporate under a colourless sun,

And the only sentiment that remains is one which rattles,

With an ever-passionate acrimony for all things routine and human,

Against the confines of nothing but reality itself.