The Metaphysicist (Kill Your Darlings) | Featured

ring ring it's satan

Tonight is the best night night I've experienced in a very long time (which is an immediate turn off to doctors all across the world, painting me as one of those online ads with the slogans "doctors hate him" printed boldly next to my disheveled picture), the night that I am finally content with the extent at which I am sailing through the misty waters upon the sailboat of sleep, far from the horizon of waking up and facing the harsh reality where my best friend is falling apart right before my eyes, but my eyes are shut right now and hopefully will be shut for a few more hours, fucking both my hatred of people sleeping in so that half of their day is wasted on unconsciousness, and my overprotective concern with my roommate who conceivably is sleeping right next to me, and if not then he's silently screaming about his vivid nightmares and benignly not waking me to talk about them, and while I should be helping him, as that's what I've been so relentlessly doing for the past few days, I have barely allotted myself time to relax in a field in which everyone should be able to relax, like, every fucking night in order to keep them alive, and I shouldn't really bother with Lucien when he would reject my services anyway, so sleep is far more productive than reaching for something ten feet above me when there is no taller person to aid me in my endeavors.

And it's a fucking spectacular feeling to just sink into all the pleasant sensations in life, sleeping for as long as I please when earlier I pleased to stay awake for as long as possible to make sure that my friend wasn't off killing himself, but he should be fine, as he so rigorously assures me every time I even glance at him with no malignant intentions whatsoever, which may be a lie, but I'm not going to push him into a state of increased melancholy, more so than before, when I could be enjoying myself in the only comforting place I've found since the persistent David Kammerer appeared back in Lucien's life and flipped everything upside down with his incessant begging, a pathetic little thing unworthy of my roommate's attention, and I can only pray that with my recovery from sleep deprivation will come Lucien's recovery from his long lost nightmare, but that's just a wish when anything is possible in the productions of sleep, a natural psychedelic for all humans.

It's just so nice to be resting here, head conceivably nestled into the pillow like it's glued onto me with an adhesive like no other, not giving a shit about anything except the visions buzzing inside my brain that are fortunately the opposite of what usually buzzes through my brain, and I could stay here forever if I didn't have a friend to look after.

And that's all going splendidly, and I really wish it would never stop, but it does, and all of the sudden I find myself snapped back into the cruel remains of what could be, the hangover from a night of the heavy drugs called dreaming, but to my surprise the sky is still stained with ash and pollution and the occasional pin of fire, signaling that it remains to be late into the night when I thought it would be late into the morning. I really have been deprived of sleep, and it's gotten to the point where a few hours of rest is what my brain thinks is a full cycle of it.

Unsure of exactly what time it is, the digital clock resting on Lucien's side of the bed blares that it's around one and a quarter in the morning, worthy of the sky's current hue, but that's all of the sudden not my biggest concern. My biggest concern is that the clock is on Lucien's side of the bed, but Lucien isn't on Lucien's side of the bed, where he should be.

Now, he is a man prone to exploring and wandering when he cannot fall back asleep, but with the current state of things his intentions can't help but be deciphered as more sinister than it would seem to the rest of the world, as he could be of doing a who knows what that is destructive enough to fatally wound my best friend, all on purpose and all derived from his full fledged hatred of existing.

He does whatever he chooses, no matter how dangerous it is to his health and to other people's health, both mental and physical, just aiming for something to occupy him, something to divide his mind from the troubles of his personal world. What he's doing is deceptive in order to preserve himself in a lie that seems almost beneficial, like turning all his watches to five o'clock so that it's happy hour for as long as he wants it to be, and he still hasn't figured out that it will never work, that he will forever be on the infinite road of pain unless he receives the help with which I've been supplying him unsuccessfully.