I dreamed of you again. No, not you. You. Two nights ago, I think. It’s hard to keep track, when days and nights all blur together, becoming different shades of the same monochromatic routine.
It looked like we were in a music festival in some open field. You were sitting up, and I was lying on my side, enjoying my weird, almost worm’s eye view of you. Couldn’t remember what was playing, though it was definitely a good beat, judging by the way you nodded along with it, staring up at the afternoon clouds, which turned that particularly ominous shade of light grey.
Yet the sparkle in your eyes told me you weren’t worried at all. Yes, that sparkle, which shone even through all the grey. I guess it was what got me attracted–nay, addicted–to you in the first place. For me that sparkle stood for why I did everything I did: staying up nights, wrestling with madness and sleep while craving both. That sparkle, whenever I saw it–your eyes, or anyone else’s–told me that, no matter how vaguely, there was a point to existence, a reason for getting up in the morning and not giving up on everything. A weapon against that sick, rusty wave of darkness that sneaks up and washes over a person who is getting tired of giving it his all.
Even now, as that wave begins to come to shore, as it is wont to do at these seasons, I wonder if I would see such a sparkle again. Just one moment of pure joy, to compensate for all the sadness, to hold back the tide.
Left Hand, Write Hand 