gambling with blanks

I feel as if I just lost grip of all semblance of hope, of sanity. It's a different kind. I am walking on a thread-thin interim, impatient for the next moment's arrival yet reluctant to step into it.

The windows are dim, and my fingers are just spaces between shadows. Why are my hands so empty, my heart so full? I'm waiting for something that might not even come.

I hate this silence. But I feel as if breaking it will destroy all that I'm waiting for.

It always happens like this; I'm not unfamiliar with it. But not at this intensity. Not with this violence. There is no beauty to it. It's downright sickening. And yet I never want it to end.