20/9/12

in the slightest torch light i watch the dust of my sheets fall, cyclical stories of illuminated descent. it becomes a question of reality, the divergent quarry between here and there filled now with some beady liquid, all sense of distance unraveled. i lay here at the end of every day and i cannot wash away the sense of failure; the guilt of all the things i have not yet done. but those things, unseen, are so lost to me and i cannot understand what it is that i have failed to do. i am beginning to see the truth in this nausea, as i feel that it must transcend me and all that i have seen and touched and wanted; all that i have said and thought and needed; and i do believe this to be universal, a common thread of conditioning. the simplistic explanations of your world will not cradle me.