The Quiet Night

As darkness fills the sky it seems to fill me as well, as if the rooms of my spirit go pitch black, one at a time. There's something about night that can force me into melancholy; a lonely and overwhelming emptiness. Today I did exactly what I wanted to do- nothing- yet now I feel unsatisfied and guilty for brushing my day's work aside. It's as if night knows I went unfulfilled during the day, and now seeks it's slow vengeance. I sit here and worry about things uncompleted, all while never lifting a finger to complete them. The quiet of night can be soothing but tonight it's dooming, whispering:

It's over, you've failed. You deserve nothingness, the quiet nothingness. You deserve to listen to your own rotting soul as it kicks and screams, wishing only to free itself from your body.

So I sit through the late hours, as I've done during the day, until morning comes and I can do it over again. For nothingness breeds nothingness, and I have nothing.