The intrepid

An inner monologue by Ashley Keegan
2002-08-15 23:37:08 (UTC)

Dewdrops and sunflowers

I took it again, but I didn't care. And no one wants to
stop me. They all look, they all stare. But no one wants
to stop me. So I take the pill, swallow it down, and live
a few hours as someone else. Such a wonderful feeling
something small and fragile can bring. One's life soon
becomes enveloped in such a feeling. There are times when
I want it to go away, when I want to stop. I even try to,
but then the headache returns and I have to go back. I
can't stop. They won't help me either. They're all off on
their adventures, as if their lives serve some dire purpose
and need.

Well it's too bad for me that they don't care. I'm just
wasting away here in a leather chair, watching the embers
fall before me. My hair is soft and laying down on my
shoulders. I draw my robes closer to me to break away from
the cold that still surrounds me. And the orchestra plays
a sullen melody as I brush away strands of yellow and brown
from my face. They've all gone now, upstairs to their
beds. They'll dream about plenty of things. There'll be
some who want love, others money, and maybe a few just to
see through another day. I just want to get everything
back again, back before I waste away into nothingness.

But I've got no reason to sleep. Sleep brings the dreams
of the past; it brings a feeling of love and warmth much
like the fire before me. And I cannot sleep. There have
been nights when I nod off and awake with the sunlight
peering through the shutters of the windows nearby, but
I've yet to dream about something. Even a nitemare would
be a wonderful revelation to break away from this endless
insomnia I experience.

There are the girls upstairs that have yet to ask me if I'm
using my bed anymore. It's still fresh and clean from the
last time I made it. They could bounce a penny off those
sheets, and they would be amazed that it smells like
spring. Too bad I made my bed a week ago.

How bright the stars are tonight. I'm sure that astronomy
professor, whatever his name is, is looking over his notes
in his office. He seems nice enough for a man who's about
as understandable as the cat that sleeps down in the common
room. He's got some sort of thick accent, and that's only
multiplied by the way he speaks. The stars are bright
tonight.

Aren't they supposed to mean something? Perhap's I'll take
divination next year and find out what. That's what I'll
do. Certainly.

Good night... or rather, good morning.




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