My own

Again the trembling starts. An exordium to the nights vicissitude. Not before horror or the obscenities of day. But within; the terror stirs the maelstrom to abrade with wicked gales and petrify with frigid tempestuous squalls. I've stood conscious and steadfast in face of the uncertain and with its omnipresent cohort, death, and been tempted only by a fleeting nervousness. But now in the dark, alone and awake, I find invisible tears wailing in my skull beckoning to come forth. As my body quakes from its core in the paroxysm of warfare. But alas, any hysteria or lachrymal catharsis is barred from fruition by some insidious prostration. The silence only deafens the symphony of the stimulus around me. And let's the cacophonous tirade within me romp and rave about in my mind. This as such, is a fearful notion of mine. To be perpetually interlocked in an adamantine stranglehold with oneself. But this is my nature. And thus I must resolve to conquer it. A castaway may face perils among cruel tides and the vexatious violence of nature. But the very sea that beats him, gives life to him. I must find hope amid the squalor. Within that hope I mustn't strike the flame to build a conflagration. Rather I should kindle the ardors obfuscated by the thatch, and harness the embers for a bit of warmth. If only for a little while. If upon the cusp of the new dawn, the precarious precipice of my estranged odyssey, I should reign victorious over myself; then I can rest. I wish to embrace the darker and lighter parts of myself as we drift darkling into the eternal cosmos. Or put them to bed, as if they were my beloved children. Before I cross the doorways threshold and turn to steal one final glance at them. Oh what churns in a fool's mind! But the banter of a blind man's commentary on a dysmal trench of a world. What life while oppressed in the depths would rise from its nautical abyss, to die before it breaches the luminous surface? To cease from existence of it's own volition; not to end its suffering. But to be liberated from itself. Clutching in its fervor the meager possibility of cognizance among the denizens of the surface. If my progeny were to reflect on me, could they understand, without pity, my life? That's blunders' and triumphs' prestige and shame pale in comparison and fall to the wayside of my life's marrow? That, whether I had wrought something crude or refined; the inherent quality lies within its genesis? My war is not my own. It is everyone's. But my own war is my own. And it wreaks havoc and discord in my heart. It taints the soul's soil with an incurable pestilence of doubt. Hazardous in its wake and while dormant a serpentine time bomb. The days are long. But the nights are endless. Eternities are short and moments last a lifetime. But I cherish these things. Dear to me, they all are. Because I may call them my own.