Listless

My eyes are heavy. The house is quiet again, as it has been for most of the week. The loudest sound in the house are the rushing thump of the keys as I press them. They fall in a staccato rhythm, rushing fast at times, then halting as I backspace to correct mistake after mistake. I don't know why I bother, since the spell check will fix them after all. Don't we all wish we had a spell checker before we said something? But no, we only find out after the words come out.

The year is almost over, and yet there are so many things left up in the air. I can't see the future past the sleep tugging at my eyelids. It's never a good thing to be too reflective at times like this, when your soul is weak and the glass is half empty. Sleep, then. A tonic to cure what ails you. Perhaps some more dreams, not the dreams that come through the gate of ivory, but those that pass thro the gate of horn. True dreams.

Dreams are worth nothing without the will to make them so.