A whole adventure. Here in the blackened nook where sunlight once died. Like all holy light, it is immortal, and is now patiently awaiting its resurrection.
You loathe its arrival. You don’t hate the light… Much.
You hate that it heralds the end of the eve. The nocturnal fallacy in which your biology sobs to hear a lullaby, but your mind ponderously plods through the metaphysical expanse that is your imagination.

Dawn proudly announces that the bastion of power has been relinquished by the light-thieving moon. Luna is dead. It’s time to get up, even though you still haven’t fallen asleep.

You’re past the conversations with yourself. Some of the words skip your mouth by now, nestling in the cradle of your earlobe without any lips to form them.

Are you really hearing audible voices? You’re not sure. What you do know is that your clock has a gag in its mouth, or rather the battery is no longer a gag in its socket… You laugh at your wit. Wait… Did you really remove the battery or was that a dream and you’ve become deaf to the constant rhythmic reminder of the time of rest slipping away.
You listen… You hear a faint tick, but you also hear that fictive child’s voice saying ‘no.’

it is fictive…

So you don’t know if the clocks timing the sand out of the nights hour glass.

You half-fill your bed, the other half is empty. You have no uncomfortably warm lover whose heat you can shy away from in a cascade of blankets. No the night is your lover, it does not mind your absence, it does not respond to your monologue, it shows no sign that it knows of your late-night plight.

The night’s a bad lover.
Again you laugh at your own wit.
‘I’m insane’ you think.
‘I don’t care you respond with either your mind or your mouth.
You honestly don’t know if either statements are true.

You’re thirsty. You’re pretty sure you just heard something metallic, keys, you’re still thirsty.
The sounds are just phantasmal ambience.

Not the one in the bathroom though. Your lip trembles under a thin stream of faucet water.

That’s a real sound. The one a clock makes. You raise your head to see the small ticking trinket bringing the reality of acoustics back to you.
The one in your room is off.

Your head snaps sideways: “the hell was that?” Again the car tries to start its engine. Damit… Workday is starting…

Soon the light will chase away the dark, so you close your lids again, inviting the dark to take refuge behind them like a fugitive would hide from the hated authorities.

The glare from your screen has become painful anyway.


~ by William Webster on May 16, 2010.

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