Regurge

What goes down, must come up-a least in some instances.  Creating rather than regurging seems increasingly difficult; the head full of hollow echoes resoundingly.  Mental ruts run the mind down paths beaten into muck, arriving at destinations long before the trip begins.  Is this just aging, or something more insidious, a harbinger of debasements to come.  It's not as if the work world requires conscious thought on a regular basis; one of the hallmarks of my gainful employment is the lack of creativity afforded.  Still, better to strive for such, than lapse into the mental withering that beckons from the void.  Even slightest works bode better than abandoning effort.  Hence, the smell of effort in sweat, rather than the sweet stench of idleness.  

daily grinder

The dreams are becoming more frightening and frightened.  The tiger sized rats, the mutant multi-legged dogs with eyes dripping humors; the entombment, where the last glimpse of light is obscured by the coffin lid--- these seem to tell me of fears unnamed.  The floods of sadness and despair that wash upon waking; these tell me more.  At the end of one day, and before the start of the next, I drift in a space of dread with increasing frequency.  It is the gift of the overlords; the increasing demands in exchange for diminishing compensation; coupled with constant badgering over crumbs of time.

The wheels of inequity grind fine and with greater speed; the land resounds with cries of ravenous hunger and want. The worst loss is that of self; leaving shreds of emotion and thought strewn across days of stress and strife.  Hoping for and fearing more the day when the demonic sights are finally obscured by the lid of darkness.