Wrote on school comp:
Dreams are a device of the soul to torture the mind. I sit in the dreary darkness of night, simply waiting for what I do not know. For whom I will never know. There is something so sweet and yet so maddening as I stare at the empty bed; sheets all made and ready for someone to crawl inside comfortably. But I fear sleep. I fear what my dreams, what my mind, what my own soul will tell me. I am afraid every day and every night to close my eyes. Because my own past crawls into my mind.
These are not dreams I want. These are not dreams I desire. I no longer want to see these mad visions any more. I only want to sleep without waking up to the sheets stained in sweat, to not have to wake up to throw up from my own sick fantasies that were created by my very soul to torture; to me chain to its desire. I know it will never stop. I know it will not cease its next attack. I know that it is a desire from my own mind. My own concious, my own desire against me.
And while I am afraid of my soul. I am reminded almost so, that there are men out there seeking their soul. Soul searching. They grow old and they’ll never find it. Those who do find it end up mad, delirious. Something I both deny and accept for acquiring my soul. For having even the selfish thought of finding my own indentity. Loneliness plagues me. My own obsessions cling onto me. And I know these desires the desire of mad men, the desire of a corrupted and selfish individual. I want my own succes, but how to achieve it. When my own wishes and dreams are not that of clearly of the sane.
My own mind just a ramble. Just a conversation that keeps going and going never idling to a stop. Never a dull thought and that runs into my dreams as explained. This conversation, this itch, this raging madness springs within even my own life. I am simply haunted by my own madness. I do not deny it. I do not live in denial. They say if a man can clearly see his own mind, to be able to understand it’s tempermant…to understand his own behavior than he is clearly sane. But what if I am only fooling myself with such a gentle thought, to think I am not mad would be a laughable thought.
There comes a feeble, soft, almost rhythmic knock on the door. Someone disturbing me while I drill my own head. While I crawl and dig my nails deep into my own temples. The person does not wait for me to invite them in. They simply invite themselves and I am reminded of why I am here as I stare at the figure in the doorway of my room. She is wearing a dark pinkish purple nightgown and her stark, jet black raven hair flows down like a waterfall cascading down. She has pretty features, that reminds me that one day she will blossom into something beautiful. She is only just beginning to bud.
“Daddy, I cannot sleep,” she says to me.
“Dad,” I replied, “Not daddy. Father or dad.”
She only nodded while I stared at her. My gaze was steady, almost easing into the conversation; I have accostumed to the night darkness without even a nightlight. My gaze and even my reflexes have become almost cat like. I continued to stare without a word, without a phrase. She knew not to interupt, so she only waited.
“Why?” I asked slowly, “Why can you not sleep?”
“They keep piering through the window,” she said.
Ah. So that was it then. They came back. I knew they would. She stared at me and I stared back. Neither of us would say anything and she knew not to interupt me.
“Well…” I paused, “Did you remind them of their contract?”
“Yes, but they are still there,” she said.
“You can stare here if you like,” I said.
I made sure to never talk down to her, I always made sure I spoke to her the way an adult should be spoken too. All though she was only six years of age now, soon she would bud and bloom into an adult. And I wanted her to know how to speak to people. I wanted her to know how to behave like an adult. I find it almost unfair that parents think a child just knows how to behave like an adult. You must show it in your words and in your actions.
“Will you tell me your stories?” she asked slowly she knew not to interupt me; an yet she just did.
“Which story?” I asked.
“A new story,” she paused and frowned, “I never liked to repeat stories.”
“Then I suppose I can tell you a new story,” I replied.
“Tell me about you,” she said, “When you were my age.”
“That story isn’t a very nice story,” I said, “And your mother wouldn’t like me telling you. All though I really would like to.”
She purse her lips in that way and pouted. Her cheeks were filled with air and they were starting to turn red. Like bright little tomatos on the side of her face.
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