‘Twas almost one, and Sleep evaded Her
How are we ever going to decide what we are doing with our lives?
For so long we wander the dusty paths of time, a splintering cane sprouting from one fist and a tarnished locket, flowing chain and latch in the other hand, twisted around the gnarled fingers shaped from so many nights of merely hoping, gripping to the wicker chairs and banisters of the only memories we have. Hoping that the next twist and turn in the garden we pace might lead to the sea, a fresh breeze lifting our hair and stinging our blurry eyes. For inside the locket lay understanding, and its picture was whipped away in its last viewing. Another heeled footprint and tripping over stones, the sky is darkened and we see not the storm that dost approach, but within the tempest, our very selves.
We feel the wind, and all that we know is fire and Heaven and our own two feetm stumbling along the cliffs. Sometimes, we long to leap, knowing that somehow we shall fly beyond it all, knowing how to stretch the wings now blooming from our shoulders. Or sometimes, we watch the surf from high above, let the gulls serenade into submission and lay down upon the bracken and watch the soft clouds of fall shape and somberly shift as the wind changes, turning its ethereal face towards the sound of winter’s voice. When winter is silent and fall is dead, we smell the lavender blooming beneath us and stand up into spring.
The midnight hours beckon with a ivory hand, whispering soft secrets in our ears, the darkest we ever will know. As moon is veiled by inkblot stars, we watch the nothingness and find in it our greatest longings, and all the answers that wracked our tormented brains until we tore out our hair in frustration. Nothing was our answer, but with that we could never be satisfied. Nothing is intagible and unfufilling, warming the soul as embracing a block of ice might do. Yet still, we cling to anything, even if it be Nothing we end up finding with the early marches of twilight feet.
For when we fall to nothing, it becomes our brother and our friend, for better to have Nothing than for Nothing to have Happened.
And in my own, these midnight hours, I let my mind out to wander, its ponderings so soporific that I can only dream of their masked truth. For what is truth but interpretation? What defines the limits of the mind at midnight?
Only time and slumber.