For several nights I have been unable to sleep
at a decent hour. I distract myself as best I can
but the time comes when I am relentlessly faced
with the ghosts of the day, the specters of the past,
the phantoms of my own inertia. 'Tis as if Halloween
descends by night to rake over the dead of one's
own dreams, hopes and longings. I so wish I could
bury my dead, learn to let go, grow in spite of myself.
torn by my longings
yearning for what i am not
who has the answers
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