Inner Demons

The night air cools the tears trickling down my face. The essence of the wind—the fragrance of midnight, the sounds of a quiet city preparing for bed, the hopes and dreams of children, and the dreamless sleep of adults—rests lightly on my fingertips that are dampened with tears I tried to brush away. I lay my head on the arm of my chair to think for awhile, to lose myself in the sweetness of lighter worlds, the bliss of forgetfulness. If dreams are the Elysian Fields, then blank thoughts are the Fields of Asphodel: emotionless, loveless, and numb. But I am a stranger to these strange fields, and perhaps the Fields of Asphodel are not so numb nor loveless, but like blank thoughts, their beauty is soon forgotten.

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