Waking State of Stupor

Waking around dazed and confused and yet completely lucid the woman in her state of stupor wanders the earth searching for something she has yet to find. What it is she cannot tell, but when she finds it she'll know.
Memories from the past brush pass her like cobwebs in the dark. Sometimes she remembers and acknowledges and sometimes she lets them wander pass without any acknowledgement. Nobody knows if that means she doesn't remember or that she doesn't care. She doesn't know either, only that she didn't want to.
Midnight finds her exhausted at the banks of the river Stix. Legend tells of its power to make a person forget everything. For just a second she is tempted to jump right in and rid herself of this tiresome journey. She very nearly forgets why she made it in the first place but then something tugs at her and she moves on despite the pain of aching muscles and weariness of soul.

Dawn comes all too soon and reality beckons. The wandering Somnambulist wakes at last from her dreams and her journey of perquisition. Fleeting images cloud her mind and like a heavy fog threatens to blind her waking mind but consciousness takes over and clears away the sleep bringing her back to the jarring state of wakefulness.
She is once again human and ready to endure another day of living and being as normal as she is able. She will laugh and eat and talk and she will make believe she's real but all the while, she bides her time waiting for the sun to set where she can return to the land of the almost dead where dreams become all that is real and nothing is ever what it seems.
All too soon the sun sets and she begins her journey through the dark landscape of Hypnos brother of Thanantos for dream was a close companion to death. The lines between the two are so blurred that one can easily cross over without ever crossing back or knowing that one can't ever cross back. But she was not here to die, she was here to search, to seek out that which she has to find. Her search will go on until her time is up or until she finds what she's looking for.

Night after night the Somnambulist goes on her journey not knowing which will win out in the end, death or discovery.

All cut up

Bleeding and bruised
Not by my hand
Or by anyone else's
Just attacked...
VICIOUS!
A slice
a cut
a fall
Blood loss imminent.
SACRIFICE!
Sacrificial Lamb
OR
Scapegoat
Payment without purchase...
PUNISHMENT!
or maybe...
fatigue.
Scars are BATTLE WOUNDS
still surviving
But barely
only just.

Dreams of the Undead

Another night, another series of weird dreams.
I'm always been afraid of the dead that wouldn't stay dead, they are often known as Zombies but technically speaking, they aren't really because zombies require an external force to control them. So my fear is just the fear of the undead dead.

Perhaps it's the influence of all that horror movies playing in the theatres but I've found myself constantly and occassionally returning to dreams of these dead people. Just the other night my dream involved my house being under seige by these creatures and we're talking about the house I have in Singapore. It was strange because some things in the house was the same and then different. It felt like all my old dreams of my house decided to get together and simply merged to become one. The feeling of strangeness and familiarity if you can grasp was what I felt. Then, there were the doors. I would lock them and they wouldn't stay locked. All the while I knew the creatures were roaming around but everytime the locked door clicked open, there would be nothing there and so I was merely waiting in suspended horror for the attack that was to come but never did. I'm not sure what is scarier truly, being attacked by them or just sitting around and waiting for that attack that you think is going to come but never does.

The dream shook me like never before and I've gone restless eversince. I need rest, true rest without dreams or visions.

Dead

The sobs bubbled over like day old vomit up her throat and threatened to pour out of her mouth but still she swolled them back, their vile bitterness stinging her insides. Her eyes felt like they were on fire simply by holding the tears at bay. She feared that once she started she wouldn't be able to stop.

What's so wrong about crying anyway?

Everything was wrong with crying. Crying was a sign of weakness, it was a way of admitting that she had lost, but she hadn't. She had held on tenaciously hoping against all odds that she would survive and she had and this was what she wanted.

What's the price of strength?

Her wrists showed signs of her survival. Old wounds and new ones healing to form a tangled spiderweb on her arm. Patterns showing where she had cut before and again worn proudly like battle scars, each one a proclamation that she would live and that she was merely tempting death. A hole where her heart used to be, on the ground the pieces shattered and left there to crumble some more into the dust.

Where does the soul go to weap?

She sits in the darkness once again, afraid of what the light might behold. She reads the words overa nd over, 'come with me' they say. Thy call out to her but she cannot andwer. She has no voice, she killed that a long time ago. Only in the darkness, the deepest night is she able to find that bit of humaniy she once had. But then, she reminds herself of how it felt when her heart was shattered so thoughtlessly by another into a million tiny pieces and how they were left to crumble to dust on the ground and she closes up again. Becoming cold like ice and hard like stone.

How does the shadow live?

Her life is a routine and nothing can ever take her by surprise again. She decides that the best way to live is to feel nothing at all and always to be in control and so that is what she does. She dried up the well of tears, closed the gates to the courtyard which once held her heart and hid the key away. She does the bare minimum to stay alive and chooses to ignore the soft cries she hears from the courtyard which once held her heart. She's deaf, dumb and blind. She lives but just barely, hardly what one would call alive.

Cold as ice, hard as stone.