Phantasmagoria Ramblings

by Charlotte E. Wilde

4:13 AM: Insomnia, enter stage right.

Dark.

I am incessantly drawn to the dark ones. Maybe its my own twisted past that pulls me to them— the lure of a kindred spirit, perhaps, someone who would understand… or maybe expect. Intriguing, these humans who, like me, seem to have become something totally different than what they had been evolving towards at one point. The abrupt nature of the change having left them with the shadows of yesteryear still etched upon a demeanor that glints with a different shade of comprehension and the tangible taste of lonely, effectively separating them from those without such sordid histories. Along with a duplicity of morals, I find these experiences lend themselves to a tendency of meaning well and acting badly so prevalent in those of us who now fight off the very demons we used to drink with. Mysteriously fascinating though they may be, it is wise to remain on guard against this sort of human, in so much as one can, all things considered.
But all things are rarely considered.

I’ve certainly never been one extract my lessons-learnt from other’s tales of woe, always had to make my own mistakes, repetitively and to exhaustion. Ad nauseum. Because running parallel to the understanding of this type of person is the being of this type of person, with all the good-intention wrought poor decisions that entails. A certain type of human who relishes phantasmagoria’s interactive world of survival horror— that point-and-click adventure game where slippery temptation revolves around the ability to restart, rewind, reread. Difficult to turn away considering how the magnetic pull of paths already wandered beckons with the stubborn comfort of “I’ll have my usual.” Choose-your-own-adventure’s forgetfulness certainly remains a tempting bedfellow when sleep does not will it: 9 lives like a cat[e], falling to land four feet firmly planted in reality, yet always blindly feeling for the button to press [re]play. Yet skipping morals, unlike records, can’t be brushed off, wiped down, re-situated and expected to sing.

5:37 am.
The pigeons have invited the garbage men to their all-night block party just as this incessant conversation with myself is beginning to taste stale. Refracted through the lensless camera obscura of restlessness, morning light lends a dreary fog to Monday alarms and finger-wagging thoughts alike. Yet, my hopes for dreams are soon replaced with a far more achievable hope for coffee. Small victories.

7:30 am. Exit insomnia, stage left. Enter resignation.

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