Immortal Pain

Wallowing upon a pillow of night he tells himself not to think of that nor of this. Soon the slow spinning of mind-threads return, every thought now is a thorn that must be plucked. He wants to relax, bathe in pleasant images yet each pool is full of sharks, even puddles can be fatal filled as they are with immortal memories. Eyes screwed tight; he wills himself to walk a shoreline, to meet a diaphanous goddess with a thousand soothing fingers. He begs her to unclothe his mind of its hurtful past. The soothing undulations of her presence cease to comfort him, rough blows of raging tempests buffet him more fiercely. He dreams of walking lightly upon stormy waters. From a sinking boat long dead fishermen fearfully call to him. He no long cares if they perish, pretend to survive or not. The waves recede, and though they will certainly return they will trouble him no longer. He understands.