some nights, like tonight, the narrations of the night make it to me by way of questions. sometimes i want to ask them out loud. sometimes i want to ask someone and the solid mass, a strong line draws itself like a flat line on a cardiac telemetry attached to a dead body. solid. loud. almost like a black hole. present. measurable maybe. circling. im not a woman of science nor am i that spiritual to believe all the time. they say knowing God is a blessing. they say rain is a blessing. sometimes i wear my raincoat out into the rain. come back and hang it by the door along with God so i can curl up in my blankets of melancholy and disbelief. who hasn’t dared to believe, hope and be proven otherwise? who has been doubtful and been proven otherwise? again, im not a woman of science nor am i at the epitome of my spirituality. so on this night, i cradle in this bed of nightmares-only because i believe nightmares to be reality and dreams to be aloof and cloudy, it’s them you should fear. and i ponder on the questions of life against a backdrop of wind, stillness, dogs barking in the distance, oddly enough-cocks crowing, cars sparsely going to and fro, a neighbors radio playing, the creak of a slightly open door perfecting its ballon maybe, i don’t know and this voice inside of my head that is coming into the nightmare that nature isn’t for or against us. yet i question that with a short question, anomalies? how about miracles?
i let the night belong to itself. the dogs to bark for whatever reason. i allow the wind to come and go. the stars to smile. the cars to drive by knowing fully well
“ours not to reason why
ours but to do and die.”*
i hope, still, for sunshine, knowing fully well, in my country, it burns you raw. i hope for tomorrow because dying is easy and living is hard. yet and almost always i will say, give me another day and i’ll still fight.
*Alfred Lord Tennyson|| the charge of the light brigade|| 1854