Nighttime is for partying, hitting the town, finding love.
Nighttime is on the corner of East Brooks and Main at a bar suffused with spirit and energy.
It’s noise, but music.
It’s moving, but dancing.
It’s talking, but waxing poetic.
It’s breathing, but smoking.
Everything and everyone is a little high.
At least everyone on the corner.
All that’s nice. All that’s splendid, but not everyone is on that party’s list…
Back at home, someone’s back from work
And their day was spent getting walked on,
So they throw a little party in their own way.
It’s talking, but incoherent.
It’s lights, but headaches.
It’s breathing, but sighing.
It was actually all so fleeting, everything was in past tense.
No, not a single present moment.
They grab a smoke and they sit outside, hearing that…music…
or whatever you call the tinnitus of that busy intersection…
They pollute the air with a cigarette just to get the little something out of life they’re always missing.
There’s always a little something we’re always missing-
Some people just think a cigarette will get them there.
Me, myself? No… I could never find escape.
I’ve partied and sat at home and done busy work.
It’s all the same: night is day and day is night.
It’s breathing, but breathing.
It’s… living, but living.
Time has weathered this old stone.
I don’t feel the same around the same anymore.
That is to say I’m perfectly barely sane.
That’s what the lack of escape will get you…
Nighttime is for sleeping, laying down, being tired.
Daytime is for sleeping, laying down, being tired.
And all that comes in between is of no value.
All things of substance substantiate no worth.
Nowadays, it’s time to do things for the sake of checking them off the list.
That’s how we’ll find the pieces of ourselves we let life strangle away from us.
Me, myself? Sure… I can find escape in the search for it.
Inasmuch as the not doing is doing,
Insofar as time is ever pursuing,
I will escape, or at least “try.”
~And I could bring down a thousand stars from the night sky to my eyes with a look.
I could plateau ever so gently in my nook
And see what my involuntary self does when faced with a history repeating.
Then only to emit a cry like a sheep bleating, bleeding.~
…
It’s waking up, but laying back down.
It’s getting up, then immediately laying back down.
It’s a sordid monotony.
It’s a curse some call being human.
To exist but to exist.
And then breathe and blink again
Because, if not, what then?