The Night

The night takes the light and the life away, but not forever.
It takes it long enough to feel it's loss,
To understand the power of nothing;
Mostly its power to take away without remorse,
Without reason, and without justice.

The night is a conductor, where all possibilities flow,
Where the future and the past become real,
Where the present is contemplated;
Questioned, doubted, and sometimes rejected.
The night is when we sometimes run, but mostly dream of running.

The night is where our evil lives,
Our vices, demons, and lies all thrive,
And threaten to take away, but mostly just to change us.
The world will change what we allow it to,
The night will open the door, for good and bad.

The night is where our true selves lie,
The past of hurt, the present of challenges.
A man who loves, through flaws and scars,
And those who stand with shoulders strong,
A village of friends and foes alike,
A life we've made, preparing to come.

The night's a void with points of warmth,
Like the world itself, both dark and spectacular.
Of cold and quiet, without our own spark.
The night's my life, where I live, where I love,
Where and who I am, and without me,
The night will go on.

a short thought on loneliness and strength

We all have strengths: those things that help to guide us through life, by natural ability.  Some of us are good with people, some are wholly trustworthy, some have an incredible tolerance for pain.  I sometimes feel like I'm an 85 percent match for all three of those.

We set up these devices- our interests, our vices, sex, tv, internet- and allow them to create noise.  The noise drowns out the loneliness: the knawing, clawing, sucking sound of loneliness.  If allowed to speak, it will question everything.

The devices come down sometimes, and it's quiet enough to hear the loneliness, and once it starts, it never stops.  "Do you know what you're doing?"  "You don't, do you?  But you've got everyone else fooled, somehow?"  "What are you going to do?"  "When's he coming home?"

Midnight, alone.  Only the loneliness as a companion.  A baby on the way, along for the ride.  I hope he can't hear the loneliness.  Once you've heard his voice, it never fades away.  In the dark quiet moments of childhood even, he's there.  He never ages, but he does sharpen over time.

He's vengeful, having been drowned out by the drugs- that deliciously intense narcotic noise- for so long.  My body hates me for leaving them behind; now we all get to hear the loneliness drone on:

"How will you do this?"  "Have you thought all this out?"  "What were you thinking?"  "Where is he, and does he really mean what he says?"

And with no drugs, and no drinks, and no all night parties, and no men who pay me, and no alternate life to fantasize about, I'm left with this.  Me and the loneliness, staring down a new, permanent path.  Everything's changed, and changing; a baby on the way.  Please, please don't let him hear the loneliness.