. // THE INSOMNIAC'S CALENDAR. )

[sinensys]

my daedal contraption
snaps shut,
that beloved snare,
and with it my memories
vanish.
i seek to restore the
lacuna,
pleading for respite from
the noxious nothing,
and beat against the walls
in attempt to gain an audience
with the divine usurper herself.
i know i should not
seek
her guidance today,
yet still i beg
for her swift and cunning
work,
that graceful executioner
beheading tasks
with a thoughtless elegance.
perhaps when she is
finished,
i will not tip back
down
until the week has passed,
my endeavors
successful.

(the old racehorse's bridle
feels coarse in my hands,
heavy.)

[sinensys]

my beloved racehorse,
sentenced to the labrean tar pits,
mutely descends
--- but only i mourn it
while others express sympathy
or do not see it as i do.
i fear sharing the
circumstance
i find myself in
makes it seem as though i
denounce my own faults,
which i truly do possess.
but yet i am also
a victim to something
far more sinister,
a device beyond my understanding,
whose wicked whims no longer
fit into that beloved bridle,
suddenly fickle
and capricious,
disobedient.
i do find myself fearing
earning pity
yet i desperately wish
to justify
why i stand behind them
and not among them.

[sinensys]

in the long, pitiful descent
into the archaic darkness,
i watched her shape
float by.

(where am i going with this?)

[sinensys]

apoptosis accelerated,
approaching net zero
--- the heavy weight
keeps all things
banausic,
indistinguishable,
blurred.

[sinensys]

the shuttle shudders,
my limp and vacant body afloat
--- sense of self ejected.
in the long empty,
i find i am trapped
but yet still my body floats
within the confines of that
hollow shell,
helpful vessel.
out here in the maw
of the gasping void,
i am but another voice
that reaches no one.
the splintering nothing
does not push on me,
net pressure nonexistent,
but yet still i feel its heavy weight,
the god among men.
i feel weakened by it right now,
but i know that tomorrow
i will have overcome it
--- when i wake,
i will rise and reach,
a ghost returning to its body,
collecting traces
of my scattered self.

[sinensys]

the sleepless controller,
consumer of worlds
--- liquid lacuna drowning.
from this endless bounty
i harness my motion
to reach some enduring
strength.
livid, my breathing
defeats the demeaning
ragged, raking gasp.
and in my victory
against the yearning void
i assembled the pieces
scattered.

[sinensys]

apoptosis accelerates,
ataraxy approaching
--- i depart from net zero.

[sinensys]

the divine void,
that beloved liquid lacuna,
vapid, consuming
--- i drift within it,
unscathed, enthralled.
my body accelerates,
propelled by
gravitational slingshot maneuvers
--- i bound alongside it,
following, disconnected.
that which must be done
remains as
that which is out of reach,
my trajectory always off
ever so slightly, marginally.
soon i will
snap
out if this stupor and realign
myself in good fortune
with the timelines i seek
--- soon i will be
lucky, favored.

[sinensys]

in the long dark of night,
rarely does
ataraxy approach:
how i wish
the unsettled
whine and scrape and drum
would blur into
one ambient drone,
unified in tonality
and in rhythm
--- instead the pulse
of the blade wedged
into my skull
nauseatingly continues its
relentless onslaught,
fickle yet predictable.
when i awake,
the knife remains,
and when i
lie still at night,
the knife remains.
and so i,
the sacrificial offering
to some unknown deity
by some unknown worshippers,
am tasked with
forgetting
the repeated punctures,
yet still i am told
i should pay attention to them,
to forget the notion
that this constant pain is
ordinary, normal.
in the long, unvanquished dark,
i remember these tasks,
and in remembering them
and attuning my attention to them,
i am kept awake.
by the time the morning rises,
that starved, empty deity
burns into all things,
supposedly sending energy
yet simultaneous siphoning it.
and so,
in the short bright of day,
i am kept asleep,
weighed down by exhaustion.

[sinensys]

we lie together,
side by side.
"what's wrong?"
the softly spoken question
finally shapes the silence,
materializing it.
"what if this doesn't last?"
the question lifts
a weight
off one's chest
and drags both under,
forcing both
to wait.
we lie together,
to one another.
"we'll be alright;
i promise."
the resultant longing
from a future that
hasn't happened
for a time that
already exists
lies in wait,
heavy.
"okay;
i believe you."