Being here feeds on my restlessness...

I rest my heavy head looking at the draperies, looking at the patterns moving them with my mind like the soft and subtle movement of the clouds. Something like casting a sleepless dream.

My mind swimming in thoughts, I try to replace them with my fancies, instead of the predictable reliving of treacherous events and unleashing the phantoms of my mind.

I wish for inviting slumber, that sort of mood a gentle rain induces and vaguely hearing the cacophony, the rhythmic tapping in the roof and the gust of wind, that certain abandonment of noise that so often drills into your head whenever you went about your day. Somewhere out there a flower is in full bloom, and in this desertedness I fancy hearing a hummingbirds wings.

I wish for a break from the monotonous routine, to partake on something profound. I think silence in itself is profound. I'm its lover waiting in patience, worshiping its fill in the empty spaces.

I follow the cracks in my walls and ceiling, trying to connect them as a cause of several events. The earthquakes, the typhoons, and time in its slow destructive form are evident in my walls.

I think some people are like that, survivors of the tragedies, events, and what experience time had amassed. Some cracks are a cause of a single event, while others are deep, carving itself in unison forming a story of events. They don't always show, they don't bleed out to the exterior, and yet its there.

Something tells me I should rest my tired eyes one night, I keep telling myself I just need one, I fancy sleeping a hundred years yet, I fear the hundred years of nightmares in my sleep and when I wake.

Pushing through the day, pushing the hours, making sense of it all and my existence, I think I keep myself interested in what should be done, wishing for droplets of hope when there is drought.

I raise my hands and doing as I have ever since I was aware of them. I see them slicing through the air, waving, clasped and closed. My reflection, I think sometimes it betrays me but the vision of my hands somehow appeases me in certain ways that could only be vanity.

I tried it a million times, looking at the reflection in the mirror, trying to acknowledge it as my own, dark curls, prominent forehead, the frown, two pools of brown, the rounded nose, full lips and undistinguishable chin. The mask and its numerous faces, Is that what people see? Tired rings of black and heavy eyelids are my newest tragedy. In my opinion, just a shell, almost pleading, wearing that smile very loose, rare on that round face.

Still in my bed, resting my head, aware of the buzzing, swimming in words. Tired as I am, sleep-deprived, merry in my reverie, I am aware that Im always here, always here and never alone. The phantoms in my head, they lurk, they loom.