(no subject)
Prompt: Dream
Word Count: 477
I rarely sleep - though it is not out of insomnia. I rarely dream - though it is not out of lack of inspiration. Two hours is barely enough to form the most simplest of dreams and I think my mind skips over them for my own sake. (After all, what sort of things would a man like I dream about?) Not to mention, what use is there in dreams? Often, psychologists see them as a means of the subconscious to work out a problem that the conscious cannot. (I have no such problem, I do not, I cannot.) Oft times, these problems are of the scarring, the malicious, the twisted and malformed. Others, perhaps, it might be a simple conflict of love and courage. (Of which, the former does not apply and the last -)
I still do not dream, not even here - though in my sleep my head is filled with voices, never stopping, never ending. I can never remember the words and I can never remember who is speaking to me, though they sound so familiar. (The voice reminds me of him sometimes.) Every time I drift from wakefulness, the voice is there, speaking, speaking, speaking to me. I can only describe it as 'seductive', but I do not mean it in the romantic sense. (Do I truly ...miss him?) It is like the Christian devil, perhaps, whispering sweet temptations into my head as I try to rest. Each idea is... I wish I knew. I wish I knew beyond a vague feeling that there was once a voice. (I could swear that it was his.)
What use is there in offering words in my sleep only to take them away? "We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered." Is that all it is, now? (If I knew what he was saying-!) The smell of smoke? The idea that perhaps, once, there was meaning, a purpose, a message? Even so, if there wasn't one, why would I hear voices in my sleep? (His voice his voice his voice) What use, what purpose? I blame everything on the planet left and right. Has it so gotten into my head that it has infiltrated what should be peaceful as well? (And in his voice, his!)
Perhaps... perhaps I could withstand it more, were I able to remember.
(Perhaps if it wasn't his voice.)
Even then, would I want to?
(Why him? Why does it have to be him?)
They could be words of my death, of suffer and torment and pain to come.
(He would never tell me things like that.)
Or... they could be the very words that would snuff my soul out like a candle.
(...he wouldn't.)
(...right?)
Word Count: 477
I rarely sleep - though it is not out of insomnia. I rarely dream - though it is not out of lack of inspiration. Two hours is barely enough to form the most simplest of dreams and I think my mind skips over them for my own sake. (After all, what sort of things would a man like I dream about?) Not to mention, what use is there in dreams? Often, psychologists see them as a means of the subconscious to work out a problem that the conscious cannot. (I have no such problem, I do not, I cannot.) Oft times, these problems are of the scarring, the malicious, the twisted and malformed. Others, perhaps, it might be a simple conflict of love and courage. (Of which, the former does not apply and the last -)
I still do not dream, not even here - though in my sleep my head is filled with voices, never stopping, never ending. I can never remember the words and I can never remember who is speaking to me, though they sound so familiar. (The voice reminds me of him sometimes.) Every time I drift from wakefulness, the voice is there, speaking, speaking, speaking to me. I can only describe it as 'seductive', but I do not mean it in the romantic sense. (Do I truly ...miss him?) It is like the Christian devil, perhaps, whispering sweet temptations into my head as I try to rest. Each idea is... I wish I knew. I wish I knew beyond a vague feeling that there was once a voice. (I could swear that it was his.)
What use is there in offering words in my sleep only to take them away? "We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered." Is that all it is, now? (If I knew what he was saying-!) The smell of smoke? The idea that perhaps, once, there was meaning, a purpose, a message? Even so, if there wasn't one, why would I hear voices in my sleep? (His voice his voice his voice) What use, what purpose? I blame everything on the planet left and right. Has it so gotten into my head that it has infiltrated what should be peaceful as well? (And in his voice, his!)
Perhaps... perhaps I could withstand it more, were I able to remember.
(Perhaps if it wasn't his voice.)
Even then, would I want to?
(Why him? Why does it have to be him?)
They could be words of my death, of suffer and torment and pain to come.
(He would never tell me things like that.)
Or... they could be the very words that would snuff my soul out like a candle.
(...he wouldn't.)
(...right?)