The lights flicker, blindingly. I see wraiths and phantoms in that instant of fleeting darkness.
I write by typing. Stitching words in awkward sequences, chasing dreams.
The blinking cursor mocks my inability to construct sentences, once I was so proud of.
I have grown afraid. Of almost everything there is to be afraid of.
The rustling poses a turning of leaves, back to newer beginnings.
I grow arrogant and complacent with my inflated ego unchecked.
The joy is still there, singing songs of treachery.
I start. I stop. I continue on.
The demons emerge, tall and strong.
I see a reflection of my insecurities.
The writer dying, as routine sets in.
I don't wanna give up.
