Delusional

The fly keeps crawling across my knuckles reminding me that despite what seems to be a sea of words swarming across my computer screen I haven't typed a single thing in hours. It's frustrating. The idea that what I think just happened didn't really happen. The notion that, even for a moment, I'm slipping...again.

One minute I feel like I could put my fist through the wall and the next my arms are so weak I can barely lift them off my desk. My head tilts back and to the right like my neck is suddenly not strong enough to support it and I find myself looking out the bottom of my eyes less I be stuck staring at the ceiling. Everything I think just seems slower, not less intelligent or less interesting necessarily...just slower. I wonder if this is what dying feels like.

My lips are dry, my throat is raw, my eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds. Dry little coughs rack my body, the pain in my chest resonating with each subsequent gasp. When I clear my throat to try and speak it's like my ribs are cracking with each word making everything I say sound more...painful...then it's meant to.

I'm so fucking tired. I'm so fucking spent. And yet that feeling stirs inside me, that voice echoes in the back of my head, those little blue sparks ignite behind my eyes and I know. It's not over yet. It is not over yet.

The raven sits high up in the corner and asks if I remember where he came from while the dark wolf lurks in the shadows staring hungrily at my heel.

All I have to do is sign the paper and I can go home.

All I have to do is agree with something I know is wrong and everyone will get off my case.

All I have to do is pretend to forget and everything will fall right into place.

All I have to do is do it all.

Just like it's always been.

Just like it always will be.

There is no light...we run on.