Slumber

To the bed, and gather the crumpled duvet in and attempt to fall and be swallowed by the grace that is nocturnal bliss. Pulling the sheets across the weary frame, so that the night can be blocked enough that linen creates an ocean of dreams. But night, like a cacophony of mixed silences, comes like a storm and wakes the restless traveller. So, in the shadow of day, I travelled the emptiness that was called home, and entered the dark shadows that created the night. Nor a sound, or motion was playing in this theatre of black; only I. The nightwatchman of life's toils.

And on what plain does such slumber deliberate. A marking of time by which one's fatigue has such weariness and pain that one can only see a restlessness in thought. The sofa. Late night TV. The burning city hue that crawls in through the curtains, such do thieves in the night. All never taking prize in eradicating the starring of the blankness of night. The sheer loneliness that the ticking clock, companions itself to the the gentle echo of your beating heart. And there, as you try to rest, the talk. Talk of future existence in every passing moment. And for you, you simply seek silence. Silence from all things.

Such comes the sun, in the morrow, and the night had it's way. Breaking the promise of dreams and respite from a daily past. With eyes wide shut, you begin to engage the day in the repetition of modern existence. Knowing only too well the pillow is the only advocate of what you truly desire. And the day seems long. The day seems greyish in it's coldness and saturated brilliance. Each step draws the next night's performance and that audience which is the numbing thirst for nothingness; and slumber.

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