As I start to dream about death and dying,
Only a sense of responsibility rouses me from slumber.
In my waking hours, I find myself,
Trying to look below the surface of ponds
for answers,
For my dreams start to take on a whispery, shimmery quality,
That makes them tangible.
I become less inclined to ask for help,
Lest my questions be a bother.
I could not care less about the rules of association,
Could not care less for the rules of existence.
In dreams, life processes lose their meaning,
Become less important,
And once you perfect the art of dreaming your own death,
Life itself loses its meaning,
Loses its shape and form.
As I reenacted each scene,
I was filled with an almost childish wonder,
A sort of longing, melancholic desire to see what lies
below the pond,
To see what waits for me
on the other side.
And each time I was brought to life,
I lost the will to live.
Take me back to the womb of my mother,
To a time when nothing I did mattered,
When I didn't care for any of the things that make life meaningless and depressing.
©May
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