usa best dating site Insomnia: Also known as sleeplessness, the difficulty of falling or staying asleep caused by a wide array of medical or psychological issues including stress, depression, and trauma.

hop over to this web-site Often do I dream of my father. Though I have not seen him, nor heard his voice in many years, nearly every night when I close my eyes…he is there. There, in the house where I was unmade.

There is always the house. Always the cold pale blue of wild eyes.

In my youth the dreams of him were much like my waking life; I am a child, cowering in a corner against the onslaught of a rabid wolf who seeks to consume his children. And how the beast did bite. Festering fangs seep poison in my veins that will find root and grow. I was never so tiny as I was against that titan. In my dreams, I can’t speak. He has stolen my voice and it will take me a lifetime to find it again. I am reduced to utter nothingness, my strength stripped off my skin by the lashes of a forked tongue. With all of me, I hate him for making me so weak. Soon, I will come to hate myself for my weakness.

Out of spite, out of instinct, and absolute necessity I grow; contorted but uncompromising. I vow to myself I will never be weak again. I lie to myself until it becomes the truth.

Years pass. I am finally strong and I want him to know. In nightmares more vivid than any day I throw my father into the walls of the house until they break. I want them both to feel this. My fists pummel those cold blue eyes shut; he feels it. The poison pumps fetid and scalding, and I am too blinded by it’s rage to see I have become a beast–just like him. I have finally claimed my inheritance.

In those dark days of hate, my nights rang with thunder and a terrible war. There was never any semblance of victory. Each morning I only woke with a terrible ache in my heart; the wake of which hits harder than any pain we authored against the other.

My father may have laid the foundation for a terrible future for myself, but here I was…ever the architect, still building this temple to worship the anger I’d come to love. I will be a man before I tear it all down, going gray as I kill the god I’d learn to pray to.

The eyes he gave me saw the world with magnificent malignance, so I tore them out. With new eyes, I gaze upon the battered form of my old man. No longer the giant I remember, he is a small and frail thing now. In my dreams, there is no more war. In our armistice I speak with my chest, my words no longer dripping with the venom he put in my veins. I ask him questions, so many questions that even with my newfound strength I still buckle under the weight of them. I implore my father to help me lift this burden. I am begging him and he will not answer me. He has already given me everything he has.

He is mute. The ice in his cold eyes melt into a wrinkled, broken face full of such sad smiles and an undying pride that does not permit those tears to fall. The rabid wolf has final succumbed to it’s festering disease; this is defeat. He never sought treatment, because to admit there was illness would mean there was a flaw. Our curse took my father long ago; whoever that man is now, I do not know him. I only know the circle must be broken.

I mourn him and all that could have been. I have bled the poison out that was consuming me in his honor. I harbor no more hatred in my heart. There remains only a great gutting sense of pity and, in spite of my most monstrous efforts, an undying note of longing in a song I’ll never stop singing.

The dreams still visit me, drifting in on quiet nights when my heart has no vacancy. There is always the house. Always the cold pale blue of my father’s eyes.

Most nights I just fight the sleep.

ian gallows ©


So I fell.

Long did I linger in the crater of collapse. I made shelter amidst the scorched earth and haunted the place I learned to call home. A spirit that languished in a past it could not move pass. Cursed to relive all the minutes in the many hours that made me what I am.

I took my time like it was something owed to me. Licking wounds so compulsively the very act of healing kept injuries from ever closing. What was one more scar among an already flagellated body? I was made to believe I was my wounds. That all I suffered, was all I had to offer; thus I was valueless. Unloved, to be discarded. Someone else’s lies became my truths and I called myself an honest man.

I was a ghost passing straight through the things I yearned to touch. People slipped between my fingers like water and dripped out of my life into polluted rivers of memory, only to be forgotten by a heartless sea. These hands never taught to hold, there was only the act of letting go. Such was my purgatory. Neither saved, nor damned, just a phantom to be forgotten. Until I saw my future in that place, and found that there was none.

So I took my body and possessed myself again. Bringing new life back into atrophied limbs, reminding them the strength of their grip as I lifted the burdened boulder of existence willingly up this mountain that knows no peak. Aware there may never be a period of peace. I may always be at war against this, but what greater fight is there?

Rise and rise
and rise again
and again,
in a baptism of ashes.

I forgive what there is to be forgiven, for I must travel light. I pardon those who have wronged me, for they too were once children of God. Embraced, not in grace, but marked and broken in their Father’s image before the age of reason. Thus traumas transcend time, like chains linked from their beginnings to ours in forges whose fires are kept bright and burning generation after generation in hatred and anger. So I came to love my legacy. I inherited these rusted irons and melted them down into armor. My daughters will have their shield and my sons hands will be bound no more.

The words I used to curse myself, they were never mine. I thought myself damned and made that hell so loud I heard nothing else but my own fire for a lifetime. Until someone showed me all those lies I thought were true. How they wore my face but spoke in my father’s voice. I had to learn how to speak all over again until those voices belonged to me. Kindness was once a foreign language, now my tongue is fluent and it has tasted salvation. Ever since then, it has finally been quiet. Life grows anew among the blackened soil and soon, it will be green again.