The song than inspired me is Dream Theater's Wait for Sleep from the album Images and Words, which happens to be my favorite song.
Wait for Sleep/Standing by the window/
It was cold. She had her arms protectively wrapped around her chest, but it made no difference. Her bare hands were cold, too. Pale fingers were slowly running down her arm, tracing. The slight, insecure touch caused shivers. She was leaning against a pane, tensed, trying to control her breath. She watched the mist from her parched lips sets on the pane, and vanishes a second after. Any warmth was immediately absorbed by the ubiquitous cold.
/Eyes up on the moon/
The moonlight was weak. As if the moon was afraid of waking up something sleeping in the darkness. Something, that shall remain covered, hidden.
The moon was frightened. The moon wasn't full. More than a half of it was invisible. Nonexistent. On the cloudless sky there was nothing to hide behind. The stars seemed so distant. The moon was there, above, alone. Something was slowly eating him. Destroying him from the inside, each night leaving a smaller, weaker part of him alone. The moon feared what the next night would bring.
She knew that feeling.
/Hoping that the memory will leave her spirit soon/
She tried to concentrate on something pure. Something pure, true, straight and right. Something, that could be interpreted one way only, knowing, that it was the right way, the good way, the only way. Something different from the dark, merciless cold surrounding her.
She never wandered why, but it was only at night when she touched herself. The frightened moon, and the plain, emotionless sky where the only witnesses on the forbidden act. Only the distant, foreign stars knew the way her skin shivered at the touch of her own, cold fingers, the way it tensed under that touch – the only touch she could experience, the only touch she would experience.
The only touch she knew she knew was cold. And there was nothing that could make her believe, that in hell, it was hot.
/She shuts the doors and lights/
Now, it was cold, and dark. The shy moonlight offered no help in recognizing the things around her. Everything was covered up in shadow. Everything was unfamiliar, strange, and different. Everything was scary. She could interpret the shadows any way she wanted to. And because she was cold and frightened everything was horrible. Because it was unknown. Everything seemed connected with those nightmares, those fears in her head.
She wanted to be alone. Because she was not alone. Never. Just like the moon surrounded by the stars that preferred to keep their distance, but they always were there. There always were the memories, the voices. Always the cold.
/And lays her body on the bed/
The sheets were cold. The sheets were sharp. The sheets were plain.
Too plain.
In the overwhelming darkness they were the only thing that stood out. They were exposed, naked, and left at the mercy of the dark. And so was she. They offered no protection against the night, or against the cold. They offered no protection against her head.
She was too afraid to make a slightest move. Her hand – sweaty despite the cold – was lying along the sheets, with the palm up, uncovered. It was perfectly corresponding to the color of the sheets. But it was too exposed.
She clenched her sweaty, wet fingers into a fist. The fingers offered each other some kind of support. Tightly curled up together they were safer. Stronger.
She wandered, how could even the sweat be so cold.
/Where images and words are running deep/
Another torturing scream. Another nightmare. Another cause of pain. Another wound. Another cold tear.
All of it inside her head.
She wanted to get rid of the awareness, that it was all happening for real. She wanted to fall asleep, finally. She could even stand another dark dream.
Everything was better than living in a nightmare, knowing, that it is reality.
/She has too much pride to pull the sheets above her head/
She told herself she could face that. She believed she was strong enough. She wanted to believe, that it was brave of her, to keep her eyes open, to look straight into the darkness.
But she knew, that if she closed her eyes, the images appearing inside her head would be more frightening.
She could of course extend her hand, reaching to turn on the lights. It was late now, and the others would never know. But there were no others. It was just the cold, the moon, the images and she. And the fear.
But she wouldn't turn the light on. Because she would have to unclench the fist, to break the unspoken, safe alliance.
And because it would be too weak of her to surrender to the darkness.
Because her own pride was the only thing she had left, that belonged to her. The only thing, that didn't vanish in the cold.
/So quietly she lays and waits for sleep/
She could hear the clock ticking in the distance. Just a mechanism, a frequent, steady rhythm.
Another second passing, gone. Another second lived through, forgotten. That second was not coming back. Ever.
She was not afraid of death. She was not afraid of dying. She was afraid of living her life in fear. And she was afraid that it might turn out, that it's cold in heaven.
/She stares at the ceiling and tries not to think/
She couldn't stop her thoughts.
She couldn't quiet all those voices.
She tied to concentrate on something happy, but the problem was, she couldn't recall anything like that. Her imagination was too sick, to let her ever be happy. She could always see the dark aspects. Of everything.
/And pictures the chain she's been trying to link again, but the feeling is gone/
Screams. Voices. Silence louder than a scream. Not even a single sound. Hundreds of voices in her head. Storm. Silence, interrupted only by the automatic ticks of the clock. Another second. Tick. Another second. Gone. Forgotten. Reminded again and again. All the seconds are the same. They are cold.
/And water can't cover her memory/
She is asleep finally. But she isn't peaceful. Sleep doesn't bring her rest. She is tainted. There is pain, across her face.
/And ashes can't answer her pain/
As if she was aware, that this state is just transitional, that it will be gone, like all those seconds, that she'll wake up the next day, another day, all these days are the same, they are cold.
/God give me the power to take breath from a breeze/
She'll wake up, to face the fact that she's still alive, trying to fight herself, begging the voices to stop, to leave her alone. She'll wake up, and the moment she opens her eyes, she'll dream of being asleep again, she'll dream of loosing conscious, of getting rid of awareness, that this is going to happen each day, and each night, each second, cause they are all the same, they are cold.
Each night, every night.
She'll say 'goodnight' to the moon, knowing that it's senseless, that it's not a good night, never was, never will be. She'll face the moon, so distant, but so close, always there, understanding.
The touch of moonlight on her skin, and pale, cold fingers.
/And call life from that cold metal frame/
She'll always be cold.
Living her life from dream to dream. Trying to escape. Not being asleep under the moonlight she'll only wait for sleep.
END