You have always striven for light, yet found solace only in me.
Your kingdom is as great as mine and I have no power over you, yet you keep calling upon me from every sharp turn of your high road.
You reach out for my darkness, you wrap yourself in its familiarity, somehow feeling protected from the otherwise frightening unknown.
You love me, the idea of me, the sound of me, the electricity that I am in your spine. You call on me, yet believe it is I that beckon.
You are a mistress of deception. A skillful one indeed, with yourself as your only victim.
And I always answer your summons. The comfort that I bring dulls the pain of self-awareness and the futileness of your existence, stripped naked of joy and wonder by your newly-realized adulthood.
You seldom called on me back in the days of your youth when your blood ran faster and your mind went on less examined. Now you are aware of how we differ, you and I, and you long now for immortality you thought we shared.
I am a thought, a feeling, a cluster of dreams and desires. I am incorporeal and therefore can take any shape. To you I am a slender mocking man with a crooked smile and to others I am a tune, a mountain peak or a grandmother's garden. An intangible, an unforgettable, perhaps never experienced yet a yearning above all in this fleeting life.
And you keep calling on me every time you are lost or down. You reach out to me as if I held any truth of my own. As if I could bring you any real taste of satisfaction. I am your dream, never incarnate yet vivid as ever. I will never satisfy you and you will use your last breath to call me.
Sleep, my dear Sarah. Dreams will bring respite from your painful wakefulness.
And I'll be there for you as your world falls down.