I am afraid. I lie in bed petrified. I don’t want to get up, just sleep. I want to sleep forever. On my nightstand is yesterday’s mail. No, it’s older: two days, three days, I don’t know. I don’t want to open it. I pick it up only to set it down again for tomorrow. I am afraid.
It’s all falling away, all the light is dim. Inside me hate spreads like a black morass. I try to be human, to smile and laugh with friends, but the pain turns it into a silent grimace. What cause have I to fear, to hate, to have this net dragging my heart to hell?
I hate this darkness driving my mind toward destruction. I hear the demon’s judgment, the obscene crime of existence demanding punishment. Did I ask to be made? What mad, purposeless reason is there? Why should I ever get out of bed?
But the blonde haired child wants me to tell him a story, and then I can face the pain another day, to tell the boy another tale. What a rickety crutch. Children are not children for long. Yet, the blonde haired child has been with me for all the time I know, always demanding that the tale be told.
Very well, bring me a pen, and may God bless me.
And in response to DM and his Question of the Day:
Simply the words, well done,
is all I want to hear
when once the time has come
that I shall disappear.
Tale Told 