Rest… like Mourning

And it is at times like this when the darkness creeps out and brushes deliberately against my mind like the cat reminding you it is feeding time, when the darkness slowly grasps my heart making it feel and beat as heavy as lead, dull and toxic, that I need more often to rest. It is as if these times of rest are times of grief, like mourning all my fading hopes and already failed dreams. It is a feeble reaction by my enfeebled soul to the realisation that life will always ring hollow when sounded, no matter how much one tries to fill it. People are less like mirrors to one another than echoes; like sensations coming back to us from rough-hewn surfaces that we ourselves projected, except distorted and confusing, yet with enough of their origins remaining to make them familiar and somehow comforting even. In this world we are ultimately talking to ourselves in front of God, using others as sounding boards to satisfy our own egos. We bob around in this sea of life occasionally touching one another, occasionally crunching one another, but the sound of collision is always that hollow clunk, that dull thud of a body once airborne now crashing to earth. There is no cry for help to be heard, and no hearing for any crying for help. There is no stirring; there is no sound except if we chose to invent it.