(Untitled)

[fractal_reality]

Sometimes I can't tell if you're my anchor or what lets me go. Sometimes I can't even tell if you're real or not, if I only made you up in my head. Your face gets blurry in my mind, and I only see you in dreams.

Sometimes I wish you would just let me go, and others I wonder if you're why I'm still going.

Comments

[spillmyguts]

i have one that makes me feel like this.
but he is 1000 miles away.

today i feel like a vampire. i look in the mirror and see nothing.

[anonymous]

Dreams are the fabric of life... without them we are naught.
Though we might never live to experience them, we will live to remember them, and do what we can to fulfill them.

Sometimes I wonder if life isn't what makes the dreams go on. A neverending circle.

Thanks for the thoughts... It made me wonder about other things...
*hugs for you*

Oh sweet constancy.

[anonymous]

At these times when you endeavour to make clear that face and give it substance. As now, just before you close your eyes and move closer to oblivion. Fleetingly to find some semblance or outline. There! A profile of your beloved on the horizon - between here and sleep. An image from some other time. During some disagreement when they drew hard on their cigarette and drew away from your intent glare. How could you ever have forgotten this! You cannot stand to ever lose this image again. So you feebly search for a proxy to conjure up that moment at will - some meagre associative symbol. You keep your eyes closed and fumble about the floor beside your bed. Your fingers find your ever-present packet of cigarettes. Withdrawing a single stick you light it without rupturing the image. The metamorphosis begins and the face begins to fade. Urgently, you draw back and fill your belly with the sweet Virginian vapour. Gently you open your eyes to the darkened room. There exists only the peeling ember afloat on the black. As you exhale and focus

Ah, sweet constancy

[anonymous]

At these times when you endeavour to make clear that face and give it substance. As now, just before you close your eyes and move closer to oblivion. Fleetingly to find some semblance or outline. There! A profile of your beloved on the horizon - between here and sleep. An image from some other time. During some disagreement when they drew hard on their cigarette and drew away from your intent glare. How could you ever have forgotten this! You cannot stand to ever lose this image again. So you feebly search for a proxy to conjure up that moment at will - some meagre associative symbol. You keep your eyes closed and fumble about the floor beside your bed. Your fingers find your ever-present packet of cigarettes. Withdrawing a single stick you light it without rupturing the image. The metamorphosis begins and the face begins to fade. Urgently, you draw back and fill your belly with the sweet Virginian vapour. Gently you open your eyes to the darkened room. There exists only the peeling ember afloat on the black. As you exhale and focus