Farce

I fall fast. When you don't hear from me, odds are I'm not well. My quiet moments fill themselves with whatever's available. In the recent past, I looked for comfort in distractions and games instead of writing. Neither holds me for long. I can write up a frenzy, or roll pounds of dice; I still struggle with sleep and Prester Bane. I just leave myself with the certainty of future loneliness. I cover it well for those observing me: no one can stay with my profound melancholy and irritating nature. The rest is an act, a farce. If you don't believe me, talk with me every day. You won't last two weeks before you decide it's just not worth the effort. If I stay in Deep Water, locked in this cage we made for me, I can still pretend the farce is what keeps me here. We all know the monster doesn't have claws. He has words too compelling to ignore, and too intensely sad to claim with love. I stay inside my cage to fulfill a silent agreement: I won't bother you, and you won't talk to me.

Tranquilizers bring sleep. Sweet dreams.