Part 2 of Puck's introspection. Much darker.
Cause sometimes life sucks and that's sucky but it feels slightly less sucky if you read about it instead
Gnawing at the fringes of his consciousness are the fears which are banished by daylight. The insecurities, the panic attacks, which ring with truth, and are unavoidable in their accuracy, but nevertheless taste like defeat.
Insomnia creeps in, and nestles its home behind his eyeballs. It feels like a gentle burn; the smouldering of tears.
He yearns for sleep. The boy with the wings that cannot lift him out of this pit closes his eyes and lies still, but he is too late: his body has been battered by the whirlwind of his thoughts, and amnesiatic sensations resound throughout his synapses.
A brain drowning in aether, an enigmatic quintessence, an indescribable feeling of inadequacy and self-loathing. He waits for sleep and instead his nervous system is flooded with sparks, that odd tingling of sadness coming as a byproduct of his hormone-spiked blood, so that instead of sleeping he shivers.
Faerie armour cannot protect him. Nor can the sleeping girl beside him. He must confront his issues alone, or flee from them alone; he cannot seek help because they do not understand, the contexts are too complicated, the situation too sensitive.
He dislikes the fragility of his self-esteem. He finds it repulsive and repugnant. He relies so much on the trending definition of success, he craves for the approval of close-minded people. Ugh. How far he has fallen. How disgusting he has become.
But his bitter annoyances do not halt the panic attacks that .
They are brief, but they are fierce. Charging into the fray unannounced, they coil the legs of their horses around his throat, and stuff the bodies of their soldiers down his windpipe, forcing his breathing into a grotesque dormancy of not enough oxygen. He swaddles himself in his duvet in the hopes that warmth will equate to protection, but instead he sweats and itches. He squeezes his eyes shut but tears force their way through, clinging onto his eyelashes before sliding down. His nerves heighten to overdrive, and he is suddenly aware of every little irritation; of his left foot that's too hot, or the rapid beating of his adrenaline-gorged heart, or that small ache building in the side of his stomach.
There is no beauty in his endurance of his fits. No rain-speckled windows, or sepia sunsets. He is ugly and weak and messy in these moments of crisis, a violent and visceral expulsion of his pain, and his payoff is minor, his relief temporary.
In the Apocrypha Of His Thoughts, he condemns himself, but nonetheless hopes for these attacks, so that with the shallow calm that follows he can lull himself into sleep.
His dreams are fitful, and he sleeps badly. But at last the The Body remembers, and the night is over.
SO LIKE, SPEAKING OF SLEEPING
WHEN I SLEEP, I HAVE LES MIS SONGS STUCK IN MY HEAD
CAUSE I GOT SO ADDICTED TO THEM
OH MY GOSH LISTEN TO LES MIS
LISTEN TO 'ONE DAY MORE' IN THE FILM OR IN THE 10TH CONCERT ANNIVERSARY
I PROMISE YOU YOU WON'T REGRET IT