The Awakening

It is not death, itself that our fears subliminally worship, it is the elaborate transmutation of our unravelling, into the poetic fizzle of our sensation. It is not to experience the evanescence of the mortal tissue that, one fears, it is rather to fathom the macabre erasure of the mind's permeable superficies, into an unfringed blackness. I have felt, in that poisonous dream of nihilism, the ecstasies of life and death, fornicate the expression of my resolve. I had been abandoned in the cold moist of a sepulchre, and my eyes lifted only to rayless, immutable darkness. Furthermore the disease of the festering iron had begun to suffocate me, so that my claustrophobia became an insufferable, nail to my senses. I wriggled, and screamed, but the cloak of infernal prosecution, bound me to the delicious reverence of despair. It wasn't long until that stolid acquiescence of calm had become a bitter medicine to my dread. I found that I imbibed it with the hope, that it was venom and I would soon, part with my morbid residence. This was until, I heard many voices, full of angst and unhewn urgency, and as if the very imagery of my spatial confinement lifted into daylight, I found myself shriveled on a cold floor. I was alive, in my homely precinct with a room full of kinspeople.