shhh....sleep...quiet now....go to sleep....go to sleep...

conscience killer.

He has been defeated. Thrown to the floor, beaten to a pulp.

His face, a map of his defeat. Adorned with nicks and cuts, some shallow some deep. The blood mixes with the grime. The white of his eyes, a sharp contrast to the darkness of the room.

The glint of a silver blade casts light in the dark. a fleeting moment, and then the gloomy darkness grows.

The silver blade, Strong. Cerated. Sharp.

A hand pushes it against his neck. Against his Adam's apple. He gulps with fright.

The knife melts into the skin.

Red seeps.

The blade whispers, a gentle shiiiiinnnnnkkkkk.

As if it were being unsheathed.

It glides across his neck. The skin peels off in either direction, the flesh parts, and blood, the facilitator of life, gushes forth from the open wound.

Life is seeping out.

His eyes bulge in shock. Surprise. "Is this it? But I have not even lived yet".

A guttural sound emits from his throat.

The hand pushes down on his mouth. An urgent voice pleads "ssshhhhh....be quiet.....go to sleep....go to sleep".

And he goes quiet. He goes quietly.

The conscience, the desire, the aspiration, the dream.

He wastes away.

Unrealized.


No one holds the blade for us. We are the authors of our own demise, ther pervading misery, the unfulfilled life.

For this is how we kill the dreamer within us.