Of cataclysmic proportions

Flanked by sleeplessness and exasperation I lay wide-eyed, my listless thoughts drifting above shallow straits flooding of smothering purposelessness and spudding self-loathing. I try to rummage for missing words, broken syllables and unfinished sentences at the corners of my recent memory, chucking out the drawers, prying under musty rugs. I am in pointless desperation to put proper names to anonymous clouds that have taken dwelling in the dankness of my room. A thin fragment of it floats above the murk but when I try to reach it, it dodges my grasp, quietly sinking into the bleak mush of world-weariness and exhaustion. Somewhere a story, a verse, a prose, a sonnet is waiting to happen. Meantime, all I have is a wisp of undifferentiated nothingness. A splintered paragraph suspended by cataclysmic dreaming and shallow breathing.