Cycling through the tempest of emotions untamed, sensations unnamed.

Each calibrated to a pitch that outlasts even the sun’s final unraveling, its brilliance dim beside this unrelenting fever.

The fracture - the eternal gnashing, the ache woven into falling short of an ideal far too vaporous for lexicon alone, for language to imprison.

And yet, why must it be the quiet hours of cursed plight when truth has risen?

Finally – patching together dimensions unbound, portals igniting the scorched edges of fragmented realities.

So let them burn – like the pages of my playbook, like roles never cast, lines swallowed by silence, lost to the ash of what never was.

The labyrinths of never-beens, could-bes, dark, shadowy, cobwebbed dungeons crawling with silent anguish, disquietude.

But this darkness, it is strangely befitting for a mind untouched by true light.

The elusive essence of a self satiated slips between the heart’s greatest yearnings, like smoke through skeletal fingers, like a serpent through veins of forgotten time.

So yes – this is a day in my life; juggling them all, passing the mic, then the stage light, watching silent as they pen the script in my stead.

And yet, my story is still unwritten, dreaming of the day it finally leaps from the page, gaining color, mass, breath...

Yet I can only perceive cavernous passages strewn with crumpled drafts and broken glass, wondering if one day, they will coalesce into my becoming.

Until then, I lie in its wake, fingertips grazing the dreamscape’s veil, waiting, always waiting, held hostage by ideals, not wings but anchors dragging me deeper into the mire of almost.