The Awake and the Sleeping
It's hard to comprehend one persons struggle to sleep when you are the type of person that drifts into the land of dreams the instant your head comes in contact with the softness of a pillow. You can never imagine how it feels to be trapped between complete awareness, an alertness so acute that no minut sound or movement goes unnoticed, and the sweet oblivion that sleep rewards, a peaceful senseless rejuvination of body, heart and mind.
At night, the whole world seems to have retired and the distant revving of a cars engine and far away flicker of a lonesome light are the only traces of human life left, the only evidence that people ever existed here. The streets are utterly deserted and the wind howls noisily as though reclaiming its nocturnal haunt. The hanging light glimmers powerfully like a beacon, shining more brightly than you could ever remember. Emitting a white piercing light that encompasses you in its glow, illuminating the contours of your face and hinting of the rest that lingers ever closer. The clock chimes loudly and seems to weaken under the unremitting hum of the house, empty of every sign of life despite you being hunched in a shadowy corner.
Life at night is something extremely hard to put into words. Your senses work in overdrive as your minds attempts to organise the days events with a tinge of naive apprehension that something would have transformed into faith and beauty; failing every time. Depending who you are, night can be a congruent experience to the previous day filled with noise and acitivity, full of action, full of life.
Iam a thinker and so my nights consist of failed attempts to understand everything and nothing.With the strange, unforgiving darkness and deceiving silence, the night is unpredictable; anything could happen. Something, anything could improve to force a smile to break the heavily set sad features ofan angelic face. You have sat there night after night since you can remember and nothing ever changes, everything is simply the same yet unrecognisably different. Your memories whisper different tales, your heart beats to a different rhythmn and your soul cries different lies. The lost day has stolen another part of your soul and you can feel the crevice that has been left gradually become filled with the familiar most of unexplained mist that encircles your very being every moment of every day.You shiver as icy fingers play that haunted melody on your spine, taunted echos of forgiveness and regret bombard your ears as you try desperately to forget past events that threaten the complete destruction of everything you once thought to be solid.
Pen skims across the page releasing more with every word yet still hiding so much more inside. Ink yeilds to the weight of tainted words as the form of a tortured letter emerges. A letter without recipient or understood purpose yet it holds on to a person, a young girl struggling to become the woman she knows she needs to be, balancing between desired death and an unwanted life.
The tool of truth is laid to rest and eyes of the deepest mournful brown gaze longingly at that comforting light. Those pools of perfect darkness will never convey the vivid stories of betrayed trust, unkept promises and broken hearts. A single salty tears is formed in those innocent diamonds and gains its restricted freedom as it slowly gains access on that flawless skin, curving a twisted path of sticky reality through the porclein of a mask that has been worn for so long, too long. The tear flees this site of pain but fails to hide the scar of this unwarranted breakthrough that it mercilessly provoked. An invisible slip in the angelic face, perfectly performing it's ritual release of everything that eats away at the insides of this angel that is faling, falling without her wings.
The honest truth has been unleased through wounds of the type that only love can attempt to heal. The pain becomes easier to bear as the night draws on and the faeries formed in the shadows by the ethereal light of normality prance to shine hope into the hopless, faith into the faithless and love into the broken. The pen is retrieved from where it lay silently. The nib dances across the page and undermines the reality of abuse with a joke and witty remark, a comment of reassurance and hope. The teller signs off and the pen is placed back onto its stand of safety with delicate care. This angels mask is swiftly repaired as the sun peaks through the blackened windows and gleams onto the smile plastered professionally over her frown.
The morning has arrived and as light and life descends on the blind public, this angel slips into her bed. The soft sheets embrace the tender skin of her naked body as the birds sing soundless lullabys. She drifts back into the protection of the unknown and uncontrollable that she craves.
The world continues to turn as it has since time began and will do for as long as time lasts, oblivious to the ramblings of the angel, the girl that dreams whilst others perform their monontonous tasks of survival; the child that awakens as he darkness takes back its power and writes about everything and nothing, the meaningful and meaningless, the seen and the unseen, the understood and the misunderstood, the truth and the lies, of the living and the dead that she cannot fathom the difference from as she cries and she cries, attempting to smother her own breathing. The young woman that is not alive but not dead, imprisoned for eternity in the limbo between awake and asleep; full alertness and total oblivion. Encased in white lights and the gentle songs of her own broken thoughts.