Effusion

Extraction began in a near-hypnagogic stupor at midnight whilst listening to Borknagar's Quintessence.

"Upon the ruins of the future
I climbed to behold
A distance so pale
An existence so cold"

If I were to show you the things that flutter in my heart and in my mind, I venture that whole worlds would then be created—birthed from simple lines of meandering thought. These things, these worlds: some of them could fit like evanescent trinkets in the palm of your wilful hand. Others could span the breadth of your own mind, or the universe that we share (illimitability characterising both). Pierce the gossamer film of my psychic enclosure and my consciousness would stream out with the kinetic force of far-faring comets.

There is an intractable longing in me, a bittersweetness that burrows in me every which way. Though the lids of my eyes feel unbearably heavy at this moment, they have weighed immeasurably for so long: I dare seek and see—both with my eyes and eyeless eye—the impossibilities of cosmic voyages, future-fantasies and idio-dramas that play out differently in every new dream. I cannot express how much I desire to live them.

And the burden remains my own.