As far as darkness goes, I mostly just read books. Usually I like the dark. The dim anyway; firelight, candlelight, a lone lamp in a desolate room. When the lights are low all manner of creatures may dance in the shadows. Ah, but we already sang that song. And we all know where that road ends. Don't we? Ha ha ha. But, don't we.
In seeking, there are many choices a body must make. It would seem, then, unfortunate, that I, as a rule, no longer make decisions. (I had a bad experience once. Or something. The rules and results are fading, foggy. You know how that shit goes. Or pehaps you do not. Perhaps it is just I and I who knows the ways and means of the darkest of nights in the deepest of fogs in the rightest of wrongs.) Sing deeply to my soul, for nothing else there is: to be.
Deepest regrets, so full when you have them, so un-fucking-avoidable when they happen. Can you remember, back when ... I fucked up the show, I ruined the day, I pissed you off, I made you hate me, and then you wouldn't fuck me. Which is what it all comes back to. That or something like it. Lies have a way of compounding.
Keep lying to everyone long enough and you start lying to yourself.
Lie to yourself long enough and nothing is real anymore.
Because fuck damn it means for shit. It's just that nothing and so unrelievedly so. Beget and began and ... and then ... For what and why? Wherefore, indeed. Scrambled messes and garbled eggs. I go on because there is not else. Left to my own devices - it's mostly just sleep. By myself it's rarely even the booze. Myself. By myself it rarely matters. And yet. And yet I can't won't get over myself. The only thing that matters. All lies. It is all lies. And they are all true. Or true enough. In the grand scheme of things. As part of the bigger pictures. I am just someone else's idea of a bad joke. And now we pause for a punch line that will never come.
"Time ticks forward and time ticks back, but so long as it ticks..."
- Anonymous, The Lost Fragments