Saturday, May 26, 2012

The dream is perfect. Waking is pain.

I remember what it was like to write. The way I felt when I could push my words and thoughts onto paper instead of into unheeded air whispering answers through leaves and grass. Terrible sadness has taken the void as a player in this game and turned it against me. My words fail me now more than ever. I am what I've become to accept as empty, empty in the sense that fulfillment and completion are creation. I am purposeless now, just another grey rider racing against time but with no clue as to purpose. The soulless puppet of old.

There is no end in sight. The end is nigh. 

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