ballad of the mistrel man

Sometimes, in my overwakefulness, dreams come to me in guises of reality. It is in not sleeping that I find myself sinking in the quagmire of an even deeper dream. In times of living color, of vivid reality, I wallow in an all too familiar black pit devoid of light. It is in my aloneness that I drown in noise that my ears fail to perceive - of moans, of tortured suffering, of spiritual anguish and emotional despair. In times when I find myself in the midst of friends and relatives, I find myself shivering of cold, being drawn into that desolate chasm - falling, alienated, alone. The comfort offered by everyday domestic luxuries pierce my body with venomous thorns making me bleed and writhe in pain. I derive ridicule in praise. People’s assurance and laughter deafens me - grabs my heart from my breast and crushes it. Their comforting wisdom and guidance cripples my self-concept, thereby killing reason, and sits grinning in the funeral. Sanity is then frozen with their hypocritical warmth and then thawed by the scorched soul with blistering heat while being thrown in the funeral pyre.
I futily sleep to wake-up from this nightmare - only to wake-up after and taste death in the dreams of the overwakefulness of life.
“Et clamor meus ad te veniat…”