Conscience

Hovering on the edge of madness, it feels like being sick. Every sound is close, hammering on the inside of your skull and every smell is a headache that tries to escape in vomit. Faces and lightbulbs shimmer, vibrating with fever and you wish you hadn't waited until the end to make your reconciliation. All your memories are on fire, threatening to explode if spoken, so why not just let them be your ash pit...

This is the lethargy of summer, and the premonition of painful reawakening. What demons of guilt await the mind that has been lulled to sleep? That the demons should never come is the greater fear, for their absence would signify the fundamental rupture with oneself. We keep the past alive, secretly longing for that night of vast sufferings, when the wolves will rend limb from heart the justifications that soothed the uneasy rest of sloth. Howling as they consume the poisonous flesh, our attempts and endurance and eternity reveal their mocking mortality, delighting in their status as victims of time. What will remain when they have stripped us of all we thought was our creation? Human thought is but a mass grave.