Insomnia

My moonlit muse stirs me awake in the depths of night, and now my mind cannot rest. Half-formed bursts of lunatic inspiration cloud my mind, enveloped in a storm of circling words. I grasp vainly at fever-dreamt sentences, just out of reach. This cacophony deafens me, and will not let my eyes close. Sitting with a notebook full of bad ideas and tragedy in blue light, evoking lost loves and forlorn hopes.

This inspiration is exhausting, metaphors streaming down a waterfall of thought, but I cannot reach them from my unsteady perch before they fall into the maelstrom, unless I were to go with them. I am mesmerised like Narcissus, held captive by a love I know I cannot have. Ganymede haunts my waking dreams with his mythology; lack of sleep makes an amateur classicist of me.

Kept here, a hostage of time, in what feels like perpetuity. Cascading thoughts and haunting fears obscure my view, I see no relief. This place is a desert laid beneath a sun all too close. A river on the horizon shimmers, and my tired soul stumbles gratefully towards it. But as I collapse, the water turns scarlet before me. Not a mirage, but something far worse. A hazy realisation, then only fevered dreams.