I wake every night in the darkest hour.
I hear him pray in wicked tones and strange tongues.
Raging wind sweeps through the house bursting open the doors and shaking all the windows. The wind swarms harder with each new prayer and lamentation.
Meditation has become my strongest ally, but still a fear arises in me that is beyond my comprehension. A fear not based on the idea of death, but Death itself. Not a mood, but a meaning.
His cries also cause a temptation to arise in me. Earthly pleasures have been removed from my appetites yet I feel a subtle desire for pain. To experience pain, to draw my own blood out of its flowing chambers and uncover its hidden wisdom.
I am haunted by sounds of horror until the first rays of sunlight caress the trees. Then, as the morning begins, its as if the darkness was only a nightmare. The fear and horror only phantoms conjured up in a fevered dream.