This was written by an INTj that I fancy. Thought it might interest some. I only partially understand it.
Remember me as a time of day.
There are some places we can never go, both in our hearts and in our lives, impassible barriers that leer at us from atop the comfortably familiar mountainsides of eternity. Those of us that carry these with us, every day of our existence, a constant reminder, can only live on like the clockwork machines we are. Its all you can do after a while, becoming numb to pain, hate, apathy; absorbing and returning it tenfold. And thats why I say that I dream of machines, I dream of clockwork, and I pray to a god that damns with every stroke that one day we'll be broken, and after that day passes, we'll finally be able to go into repair and eventually become something less yet something more. A stolen dream, as all true dreams are, for it is impossible for me to dream for myself, memory washing any sort of reprieve away.
Ultimately, I am a hemorrhage.
Bad blood under the skin, sinking in and anchoring, multiplying, and always failing to bleed when struck. Thats all I've got really, a penny without a well, a hundred wishes and a hundred wells just on the mountaintop, too tired and too afraid to scale the monument of my own destruction just so I can fall, crashing into the ground with a gravity that breathes life into every part of the body. There's a kind of comfort at the bottom of the mountain, the unrelenting chill of winter and security. The earth is not a cold, dead place, but at many times we find it hard to open our eyes, too focused on what could possibly happen if we do, and we live on in our darkened days, riding through seas of ice upon Naglfar, waiting for the gods to rend the sky in two.
Still moving on, like clockwork, waiting to be broken.
Or maybe I just need some more sleep.