The blindness of sight. Colours blend yet each ray reaches disagreement, an impasse on which colour to be. Always black it seems, as paint, not light.
Awakenings arise, spooned along a laser of time; the past roughly mounts the present,
unwanted coupling.. the past rapes the now.
the present is a disembodied victim.... out of its mind... bring it some mind-altering things.
Yet I return. Somehow from this bleakness. Sometimes. Enough times.
I crawl to the well and peer downwards expecting to see lost children, long discarded in there.
Maybe I'm there...?
But there is nothing but deep gloom.
I need to stand up, but the pain is still there. As it ever was.
I get as far as my knees. But that is something. I've been here before.
by Paul Sinclair