Projection of consciousness

My spirit is senescent, with ectoplasm covered in incandescent light.

I no longer know what I am, if I truly exist, if the door opens and closes with the breath of your laugh.

I think I cried last night hearing the voices from my other side.

My eyes woke swollen, and my body was still tired.

This soul is nostalgic for passion, hungry for some emotion.  

A good orator, but on some nights, she loses herself trying to find your eloquence.

What did I seek in the darkness of my being? Why doesn't my conscience want to see it?

I sleep theoretically and wake empirically; what happens in my nights?

What I know is that I no longer sleep; I lay down my flesh and my spirit in action, and my epistatic mind makes me pass for a lunatic!

I live more there than here.

I feel like I'm in chimeras that I’ve never seen. Every night, I must depart.

But wake me at dawn, don’t let my body agonize, hurt, turn to dust.

Find me when I am alone, and tie my body and soul into one knot.