here they come again, haunting me, making me uneasy, troubling me, preventing me to sleep. they are incessantly talking, despite my already closed eyes, they appear like ambiguous images of different beasts, some even managed to appear angelic. i can hear their tiny voices aloud, i can see their vague images unimpeded. and they won't just stop...
i am definitely sure that this is not an apparent prelude to delusions which could lead to a mental pathology for i am still undoubtedly aware of the absolute and relative distinctions between what is real and what is not. yet, the voices are there - their images look like mine when i look in the mirror but as i squint, i subsequently see that the reflections never bear my own. they are haunting me like mummified Egyptian rulers, like kings of ancient thrones, like deities of neverwheres and like creatures of the middle-earth.
does this phenomenon underpin from the guilt of this tale i am about to write? or just, as induced by my fantasy, a mere manifestation of bearing the curse that goes with the gift of having a wild, wide, overly dynamic imagination? or could it be just my brain entertaining the overwhelming, mind-fucking thought of making the Vatican grounds shake when the faithfuls come to read this manuscript i am writing which also makes me pen this post with the hope that sharing this pathetic episode will eventually help me succumb to slumber? anyway, the Vatican thing is pretty far-fetched so i am going to stick to my second conclusion.
the fiend won't even yield. he has the loudest voice among them all. he gives me the shivers and at the same time, a lump in my throat. what thrills me the most is that he is someone you may find literally vicious and beastly, but in my tale, he has a soft-spot in the ragged corners of his heart for he is someone like me: a victim of something beyond reason can ever explain, beyond faith can endure and beyond fantasy can ever fathom.
in this another sleepless night, this dominating fiend is my friend. he talks to me and i listen to him. his narration becomes my tale thus this tale i write... and i start in ten, nine, eight... i don't want to wait. i will write until he finally allows me to fall asleep and there we will continue with our brainstorming.
i might consider some psychiatric aid but not until i'm done because this is the best time to type his words - raw, fresh and while he is sitting beside me in the flesh.
don't worry about me, when this is all over, i will sneak out and find my way back to sanity.
xdelax-5/08
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