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The Sleeping Mortal



There is loneliness in uncertainty.

I find myself writing words without reason, not knowing what I am feeling,

oblivious to the rats under my bed and the monsters in my wardrobe.

I see trees in the city and cars in the forests.

I see clouds in the ocean and birds swimming in the air.

This is not a metaphorical cold, it is a physical cold that takes me on its wings and

throws me swiftly into what is abstract, as life is my witness.

Or is it I who is my life’s witness?



There is uncertainty in the future.

I seek all that I cannot achieve.

I feign wisdom and wit in order to find security in myself.

I am scared of that big dark house,

of that freezing voiceless bed

and that hardened pillow.

Loneliness is something I fear and crave, like power, like fame.

My body carries me along my paved destiny as I can only watch and stare.

Or can I just tilt my head and change direction?



There is future in my thoughts.

My eyes are open when they are closed.

Imagination takes off like a rocket as soon as I wake and the crystallized muck in my

eyes doesn’t make it any harder.

Dragons, politicians and aliens are at war

yet there’s me in the middle trying to forge peace.

But I am invisible in my own dreams, except to myself.

Hurricanes inside my head: convulsions of fear and excitement that never cease.



These are thoughts about my loneliness.

The one I cradle in my arms before trying to sleep.

The one that haunts all my memories, my future and my dreams.

These are letters that only I can understand unless you are alone and empty and weak.

This is beauty and joy borne from hideous wrath.

This is wisdom escaping from what is bleak.