swallowed up in the sound of my screaming
cannot cease for the fear of silent nights
oh how i long for the deep sleep dreaming
the goddess of imaginary light

Nervousness. Hesitation. Fear. Self doubt.

Or is that, really, the doubt of self?

Am I important enough that people should listen to what I say? Do I matter that much? And if I do, why do I matter so much, and others do not seem to? And if I dont, why don't I, and others do? Was it something I did, something I said, something I never thought of, something I know, something I should know/say/do/be?

I need to sleep. I need to dream. My muses are silent, though they clamour to be heard. hear us, feed us, nurture us, abuse us, starve us, ignore us And all I can do is be tortured by the half formed fetal remnants of aborted ideas which linger in the corners of my mind. A painting I should paint, a story I should write, a program I should code, a world I should create.... so many things, all impotent and still born.

Still born. Born dead, but born none the less. Still born.

Something in that, somewhere, is sickly true smelling.

They'll never see
I'll never be
I'll struggle on and on to feed this hunger
Burning deep inside of me

Angelitos, Mictecacihuatl watch over these born yet unborn children of the mind's eye.
Mizuko, Tatari Mokke, play with them, lull them from anger into paradise.
“moku kokudo shikkai j“butsu sansen s“moku shitsu'u bussh“

My mind is a littered wasteland, a kobaka of ideas now dead.
Make your offerings under the table to the little ones....