Yet Unknown

It is gone. The fantasy of feeling is a twinkle in the sky. Yet still, I would cry myself to sleep if it meant never having to wake up. There is a time when writing becomes pointless. Words can not always express a feeling, or lack of one for that matter. Yet, I continue to write. Why is that? Perhaps the words bleed through my hands and into my conscience. Perhaps my eyes recognize a skewed version of what should have been. Perhaps those same eyes deceive me. Is it right to feel more detached from reality when sober? Is it normal to never feel normal? I gaze into the crystal of the future, only to find the random fragment of nostalgic euphoria. Learning to feel as the white-hot light surrounds me. Will it be too late?