In a place or state between sleep and wake, a path lay stray. A bridge to cross, dim and worn. Who has ventured into this? I cannot be the only one to have ever been here.
I trek farther into to the dark. No light at the end of a tunnel, but a flicker halfway across this river. River. River. A lamp that has outlived the rest.
What lies past isn’t clear, but I will get there. Past the river. Past the river. The uncomforting and Ill sting of an alcohol. Pure as pure, loosely floating in this night sky. Unfamiliarity has, however, become the sole emotion I can constantly find.
I don’t know if I believe in anything past this point of dull luminosity, but I’ll be damned if I don’t question my own beliefs.
Let me go.
and no, I still don’t regret a single day.