Memories come and go and let the feelings still remain. If I'm a broken man has yet to be determined, there's no solace for this. A mind on the brink, a self-conscious shattered upon never ending dreams. A cry for help, or a warning to stay away. Who is to say and who is to judge, other than the reaper himself. Fear not of life or it's shortness but within loss of memories held cherished. I ask how you sleep at night, without a mind cluttered by questions, cluttered by fears. Would you believe that one thing keeps the thoughts at bay? One thing to light a world in darkness, even if that light has been dimmed before. Metaphors for something or someone I cherish. How to begin is always the question but the ending having equal importance. Yet humans are the only ones to record endings. Is it because we fear the end it's self? Or is it a hope that one day the dream will end, and reality will be become hole. I'm not sure. I just fear never waking up again.
© theillusivewriter