Oh young(ish) hero, upon learning that our society's members are mostly possessed by several benign face hugging parasites - who block out most of the Lovecraft-ian horror surrounding them - chooses to weaponize their newfound enlightenment the only sensible way they can can in the 21st century: through their blog!
A millennial postmodern absurdist horrordramcomfanscifi.
And so what do we lie awake to, wishing we weren't up beside?
Not the busy streets, still teeming with activity despite it being the night's time.
Not the pains in our own body; reminiscent of the day's labours done.
Not the nervous glee, at the prospect of morning's toil.
No.
None of this.
It is that we are not yet worthy of our rest.
That if we were to just rush to the nearest blank page, with the promise to write just one thing more, then - certainly then- we might be deserving.
Of rest. Of reprieve. Of dreams...
We are , of course, worthy of rest.
We are all deserving of wondrous dreams, that they may inspire in us great acts.
That the indescribable colours kept in stock for the imagination's pallet, might be played with. That alien landscapes and sky ways and river fields and stills in motions might dazzle and befuddle our minds at rest.
And then be forgotten upon waking.
As they must.
But that lingering residue that we will begrudgingly wipe away, along with the all too brief sleep of tomorrow morning, might leave us enough of a trail to entice.
To provoke.
To tease. To compel.
That. After waking we may tip our toe but one moment outside of perceived inevitability.
To fathom for an instant that thrillingly perverse coupling:
"What if?"
