Pristine. Vacant. Blankly inspired I suppose.

I stood there stiff at the edge, the reservoir grasped my echoes of desperation, but regurgitated full truths. I was to die.

Only my faulty pretences did I end up here, it was only by my willingness to give up on all that was once so attainable. This rock here is the last tangible relic of my hope, but in my full awareness I know it is.

Where did this all start my thoughts of unforgiving failures? It started at that dream, that heart-wrenching dream. In my old home that creeked with emptiness and smelt of stale wine, I had fallen into a deep slumber after a night of re-reading my awful conversations attended for under developed characters. My computer screen had been glaring at me in the deepest of its reminder,

“Yes, I am fully aware my talents have disincarnated, thank you for the constant acknowledgment.”

Back on the couch, that retched corduroy and stained couch, is my pathetic sanctuary of some sort. Or maybe the embracement of “was” is in order for my mindset.
I lay there caressing the cushions listening to the crumbs ripple between the textured couch. As my hand slowed my weary eyelids began to enclose on my dry-uninteresting brown eyes. My arm began to twitch demanding I be reminded of my pathetic existence, but in fact I would rather embrace the purest of darkness that comes with sleep.

But that night did not grant me that comforting blanket of coffin black. I was instead this dream.

Rocks, I could see and an embracive bright blue painting the background of this vision. I walked; the fluid drag my feet made on the crumbling land was violent in intention. This continuous song of rubbing sand particles continued until I was at pause. An edge of a cliff lay before me, at the very tips of my worn slippers, now what?

I look in the horizon to see a boulder of some sort, unbalanced but strongly in place.

Is this a vision of sleep or am I awake?