I know, I know. It’s late. There’s nothing to say. The stars are twinkling and the wind is blowing and everything can wait until the morning.
Except some things don’t get said during the day, when the sun is shining and everyone can tell if you aren’t smiling. Some things don’t get said over drinks or coffee in the evening, when you’re supposed to keep it light, have fun, ugh, I’ve got to go back to work in the morning, I should call it a night.
Some things don’t have a time in the normal waking hours.
Lonely thoughts, the ones that whisper in that half-life between waking and dreaming when the whole world opens up to swallow you whole.
Lies and doubts, and the feeling of wind rushing - the feeling of soaring or falling, of freedom and terror.
The moments before the moment’s forced to it’s crisis, to borrow a phrase from T.S. Eliot. When it’s too late or too early to do anything, and there’s finally time to wonder if something should be done, should have been done, should have been different.
You can run away your whole damned life, but 3 am happens every day, just like all the other times.
…
I could have lived my life for 11 am, woken up early to be on time, been productive and useful and above all concerned with the business of the everyday.
I could have lived my life for 4 in the afternoon, for getting out and enjoying myself in the hours between working hard and getting ready to do it all again. For enjoying the relief after a hard day’s work.
I could have lived for the weekend, or the quiet hours of the evening with a book before bed. I could have lived for the morning, or lunch, or any of the other little pieces that make up a life.
The little pieces that people share, the things we have in common, the times we’re with other people, interacting, either directly or indirectly. If nothing else, the times we’re both awake.
But instead I chose to stay up dreaming awake while everyone else went to sleep. Instead I live for the witching hour, and got myself all strange.
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