A Subtle Torture

I feel one of my turns coming on. Not a tumult but rather a distraction. I feel myself being pulled away. I know where this leads and yet I will inevitably follow it to its completion. Whereas before I could claim a genuine interest in the novelty of it now I am a regular player in this farce. I know it is pointless and yet I continue to play the fool.

I see greatness and know the power and passion associated with a life of meaning and hope but I feel nothing and choose instead banal distraction. I am a corpse without a burial, a sweaty tourist at the sacred altar. I have tossed my pearls to the swine then followed in after them only to become one of the herd, blinded by the filth that relentlessly clings to my eyes. It is my undoing; it is the culmination of my self-destructive will; it is my bed and I have no other momentary desire but to lie in it.

And yet I see the light piercing through the muck for I know what I am doing. Unlike the swine, I am not ignorant which perhaps relegates me an even greater depth than they for I, knowing that the present is fleeting, insist on living in it exclusively. Yes, and all this is true but for the slightest of irritations, what amounts to a persistent itch that never allows me to fall completely asleep. It is a subtle torture that is no doubt meant to revive me from my lethargy.