I am in a tunnel equal parts fever dream and drunken haze. I see the subatomic decay of reality with myopic clarity. I toss and I turn and my muscles spasm against the magnifying glass of my mind. Antagonize, diminish, trivialize, disappear. Fade away. A droplet of water back into the sea of my own personal apocalypse.
I have seen worlds beyond the void. These alien intelligences dart across the sky with a distinguished disinterest to which I am not permitted. I have gambled away soteriological insight in pursuit of false kings and fabled promises. I did not merely sign a doomed contract; I wrote it myself. Sealed, signed, and delivered to myself, for myself. Within a sick sickness I lie aimlessly. I am living inside of a fever dream, and on the rare occasion that I drift back into reality to escape the nightmares of the future, I am soon reminded that I am awaiting only one possible ending.
There was a time where I once dreamed of yellow. I am afraid the colors are gone now. Sunlight does not warm me; its glow is candlelight in an oceanic trench, and its presence reminds me of a life I once had. I would welcome the assured certainty of solar revolution right about now, but that is long gone. Instead, I doubt the rising sun. I close my eyes and feel a thousand different diseases. Some are real. Some are more noticeable than others. Others I invented, but they are real all the same. Worse than not knowing what I want, I know precisely what I want; it is inaccessible from inside of my mind, where seconds pass like millennia. How terrible this nihilism for which I had never asked. I had long desired meaning and purpose, and for a flicker of a second I had acquired them, but from my clutches they fell nevertheless. Now the pages in my books are blank, the organs in my stomach are cancerous, and my watch has stopped.
The sun will rise and my pain will temper. The awful howling from the winds of the apocalypse will fade for a moment, but this is only the eye of the storm.