themordaxinsomnium

[themordaxinsomnium]

the problem with reading and writing leading to a strong vocabulary is that you tend to know the vibe of words instead of their meanings.

if I used this word in a sentence, would it make sense? absolutely. if you asked me what it meant, could I tell you? absolutely not.

[themordaxinsomnium]

To be loved is to be known and it is within that very process one becomes enthralled. Love is the freedom to chase, unbound by restraints of uncertainty; To pursue passion without scholar, lust. To seek knowledge lue of passion is the prelude to madness. Selfish and selfless desire; estranged purveyor of perversity. Considered in equal measure, unapologetically sincere.

[themordaxinsomnium]

The romantic melancholy of monotony; upon the empty expanse of broken road, the near silence falls poetic. A buzzing droning that fills my ears, the force behind my eyes a pressing verge of rupture. I cried silently the entire drive. Setting my jaw with grit teeth as red irritant trails burned down my face. White knuckles grasping the wheel, foot leaded with heavy tension; I fixated on the nauseating neon needle, not allowing it to rise any further than the taunting white signs instructed.

Finally got some sleep.

[themordaxinsomnium]

I often find myself ensnared by the constraints of my own insipid tongue. Complex and passionate thoughts reduced to a monotonous cacophony the moment they press against my lips. It’s frustrating in a way I can never fully articulate.

It is within the confines of my mind, in the deep hours of the night, when my unruly serpent sleeps, that my thoughts flow like blood let from vein.

I find peace in that melancholy. My stormy clouds, my crackling ozone. My heart drawn on the fogged window wrapped in my blanket of tension that lie across me like languorous lion.

Melancholy is dark in all the ways I adore, and lacks any of the darkness I do not. Though, I suppose melancholy is a space that depends entirely on what you store in it. My darker thoughts are kept elsewhere, and so my melancholy room is filled with nothing but things I love.

It is under that heavy oppression that I feel the most genuinely me.

Five days without proper sleep

[themordaxinsomnium]

Making pumpkin spice pancakes for the winter cold. They aren’t pretty or perfect but they warm the wounded soul.

Three days without proper sleep.

[themordaxinsomnium]

I long for the day I burn that box. When no longer I must hide it in the closet for a rainy day. But for now, I must once again present my record of trauma to be judged and deciphered against falsehoods woven.

I will burn that little box and the person who was created from its contents. She will be left behind and finally, I will know myself. My shell is a stranger to me. She is bright, shiny, beautiful and oh so strange.

She is a maternal figure amongst fellow children, untiring and kind in a way I cannot rationalize. She venors after laughter, loud, social, glowing, pulling the ire of very few.

How wonderful she is to all but me, for she is false, possibly. I do not trust her. In the depths of my dark, in the sleepless night. The kindness is gone, the unending patience, any semblance of her removed.

There is no humor, no unwavering dedication, I am worn beyond compare. Lying in silence, swarming with words far too big for my tongue to ever speak.

Honestly, I hope that sunshine demon burns with the box. She’s exhausting.

[themordaxinsomnium]

i want to be a sweet and friendly girl but there’s all this anxiety. and the horrors

[themordaxinsomnium]

Drink that which in me still bleeds, a frisson of felicity that ignites the moment your skin brushes mine. Ecstasy, rampant electricity; a proclivity for the way in which you eat me. A masochistic monotony. Victorious ivory venor- rending innocence from my vein. Sinking ever deep.

Two days without proper sleep.