Night. like. these.
Call it a truth or a rant or a realization.

In our deepest moments,
in the dark or in the morning,
we're urged to recollect what we have forgotten and tossed.
We pick up our shattered memories and broken hearts and instead of hopelessly trying to piece them together again, we stroke them with defeat and whisper lullabies using only two words:
what if?
And the rest of the lullaby,
its lament and its lull,
is extracted from our thoughts and our dreams.

We think of {courage and of honor}, and of our {lacking traits}, and of {love and of its existence}, and of our {pities and losses}.
The
h o u r s, obvious in their crimson and violet hues, sit i…d…l…y while we race backwards through our pasts, searching for a
l
o
o
s
e thread to unwind or an unbroken window to look in.

We dream of {alternate endings} and {repeats} and of {exaggerated hopes} and {promises}. We dream of {masterpieces} and {glory}, {apologies} and {forgiveness}, and the {possibility of infinite intimacy}.

We throw away our obligations and our dignity in return for freedom and magic.
We are as we were meant to be perhaps.
-unguided and needy, our fantasies surpassing the need to survive and instead searching for desire and want

Throw away the technicalities and the scientific definitions and the between the lines and see the obvious, the different between human and animal—man and beast. (It's so clear in these moments, in our vulnerability.) In the night, our emotions clutch and feel for each other; in the morning, they awake energized and optimistic. These are the times
when
pride is
sheepish, hungry,
boastful, and gluttonous.
Are those the words?
Are those the words we want to own up to?
Our pride, our ego, our selves.

The t r u t h:
(Stumbling, crackling, falling, embarrassing)
-hidden in sarcasm and discrepancies, but still there for us to find in our moments of longing
-draped often times, in our denial and disgust, but simmering with its purity because it has no purpose other than to speak plainly, honestly.
Our duty is to accept or to at least acknowledge it.

And why is it that it is so rare a time when we find ourselves without shame or rebuttal but open ? Is it instinct or a learned behavior passed on from the evolution of society and accepted behavior, and if so, who declared this to be so and that to be that? Who told us that we must keep ourselves secret and then a larger question: why did we listen?

Was it God, or was it man, ignorant in his knowledge, and successful in his foolishness? How do we judge; how do we see? Is it right to be so constrained and so polite and so modest and humble, or have we governed ourselves to make believe it so? And what purpose would that be to hold that as the highest unwritten law? To control is to maintain and what exactly are we maintaining if this conduct does less to benefit and pleasure us and more to restrain and quiet us?

We
search
and

we
search,
but once again an obvious answer sneers at us, because in truth, it is not really an answer at all but a fact that is like {time in its essence} and {nature in its will}

But as soon as we clutch this answer, figuring out bits and pieces:
Corrupt, chaos, destruction (oh, no!)
And we seek out these little whispers and strings of phrases…

We wake up.
And we forget.
We immerse ourselves in our daily routines and our fixations on nothing our traumas that are built on offended feelings and misunderstandings. We forget what we want, what we once dreamed of, and replace those with others pretend to want and what they require of us, and we catch ourselves wandering in sync with time and society and its trends, and suddenly we’re just living to live.

And it is only at night or at dawn when we let ourselves loose.

When we’re old, exhausted and ugly, we remember and we regret and we are left to rot wondering and wondering and wondering

Is that the end?
Is that it?
Our lives, our futures; was that the reality for our ancestors and their histories?
Or…
are there the few, the minority, the powerful and the bold, the leaders and the criminals, the killers and the lovers, that break open while they can?

They’re in their offices or fucking their wives or husbands and suddenly, they realize, they’re not happy and they embrace this what if
And they turn it into a
what can.
And then, a
What has. What is. What will.

So,
what now?

Here we are now, dreaming, lost but content, unsafe but comfortable, a peace created by the simple satisfaction of recognizing aspirations and yearnings. Another night, another morning where nothing can be accomplished but we can pretend it has, another night where the youth and the old are both going off on a tangent, on an adventure, on a risk, a chance, a kiss, a kill…anything, everything. To each his own, and to his own nothing but fiction and imagination in cahoots with the most cunning and dangerous of them all, desire.