|
Only in the darkest hours of the night, when sleep escapes
me and the lingering shadows cannot play company, do I find myself in a fixated state of mind, concentrating on a sole someone,
and never am I sated until sleep finally caresses my eyelids and the curtain is called. Only when the light hides itself on
the other side of the world and I’m left staring at the ceiling, missing the luxury of waking up next to someone in
the next few hours, do I find myself completely within the confines of a singular, unhampered thought; one that is never muddied
or muted by the vulgarity, splendor or rapport of other thoughts that come out to play in the daylight. No, in the night,
this thought of love is the dance under the stars of silver screens, the limelight reel that I play over and over, forgetting
the rest of the plot, dialogue and setting.
And I’m not sure why it happens in such the way that it does, when
it's cold and uninviting even beneath the covers and when the stiff air of the night bites at my fingers and face and sears
my lips and eyes.
But even in the discomfort of the chill, the voices in that thought are the most comforting I’ve
heard. Here, they aren’t the voices of reason or conscious, instead, they are the lyrical peace within that nightly
solitude, carrying me away from sorrow and exhaustion; ever so inviting in their soft and jagged duality like Tracy Chapman,
Jason Wade or Rufus Wainwright. And the piano keys tinkle in the halls of thought, inviting me out and pushing me into my
head all at once. Their simultaneous haunting and mourning sound that plays mercilessly with a small taste of whimsy run me
rampant within that singular thought and just as the keys are stroked by a missing musician, I am alone and accompanied too.
|
