A hand made thin and pale. A hand, scarred and reaching, finds no other. Look up and reach out. Surely there will be a guiding light. Surely there will be a sense of where to go. Surely there will be a slap to the face and a sad disgrace and you will doubt again.
No one in this world has gains to make by being there with a hand to take. So back to the pillows where you fall and you wail. The smoke in the air has grown thick and stale. Essential oils and incense, tobacco and clove. Their musty essence will soothe you as you turn and roll. All thoughts are obscured and hidden from self, like the feelings suppressed with which you never dealt. So scared in the bedroom, another feeling supressed. The ghosts gather ’round to claim what little is left. Deny what is scathing and forget what has burned. The misery is powerless if it never is learned. But then, might I ask, why so sullen your face? And you might reply that it’s the curse of your race. Your race, I’d inquire, is it not human as mine? And you may just answer that it’s not quite as kind. The mortals have one gift they often don’t see: death is an option which the distraught sorely need. And what of your race, do you not share the gift? Or have you been damned to eternally live? Obscure.