I sometimes think it’s the inner monologues that drive us from our senses so late at night, but perhaps it’s the fact that we could so easily lose ourselves in the depths of our wavering consciousness…
What is it that envelopes our senses, but the dark night that smothers us to the comfort of our beds…
What is to become of the night owls who can’t seem to find a source of ease? What do they need? What are they missing? Why can’t they enter the same realm all other half woken bodies enter?
Why must the nightingale suffer through the long droughts of dreamless nights and sleepless days?
Keeper of time and father of momentum forgive my transgressions,
let me fondly pass into a state of restful meditation
for once I ask that my odyssey be over
my body is tiresome and my mind, it weaves in and out of realities near and far.
I’m afraid I’ve lost myself, my dear father,
On the long journey that awaited me.
My personal perception is but a phantom to my restless eyes and the shadows transpire memories as the daylight rises and falls.
-Here I shall provide a picture that has nothing to do with this piece. On another note, it's come to my attention that I tend to write monologues for no one. This one never quite seems done to me... oh well. I wasn't born to be a writer but sometimes it's nice to pretend.
