Mid-night wakings are lonely. The page alone welcomes me, silent and accepting, white and stark. These lines, do they echo back at me, hollow in their sharing? Echo back at me, hollow. Stark and white to be marked with futility. Echos through the night bound back to the sender, eager to return. Off Off Off and out into the night. Don’t come back. The night is a lonely time.
I sit and curl in, while sending out into the night. These lines edge geometrically across the page, designing circles of intent across the white page, stark in its listening. Listen dear page, listen to me. Can you hear? Can you hear me? Do you care? I am alone. I am alone with you. We make one, once again in the lonely night. Will you one day float out upon the wind, land in the delicate grasp of a passerby and share with?
I bought happiness for a few moments yesterday. Bought it all wrapped up in kind preening and superficial fabric to swathe about my body, swathe in dreams of ties to others that perhaps would not blind in the narcissistic glare of mirror-encapsulated individuals. A soft wool and cotton, mauve and grey, colors of acceptance, they have wandered from afar, these colors and fabrics. They traveled from far away, made with steady hands. Old? Young? Whose hands made you? Whose hands packaged you? Whose hands slide up and down my body as I dream of the tie to others? Were they alone? Sitting? Standing? Were they chitchatting while distractedly knitting me a dream? I connect then with them. Did they feel my intent. Did they invest the yarns with well-wishes like the pennies dropped in the well of endless unanswered dreams? Did they send them out to me, to not echo back? The penny continuing in its fall till it lands in my dream. Sent out they did. Sent out they did. And I received. I bought a full bag of happiness yesterday. And as alone as I can be, I know they will slide on over my body, cold metalic penny wishes sent off in the yarns. Were they chitchatting distractedly? Of brothers and children and worries that have them stumbling through the night in search of soothing? Do they have their stark white pages, the ones that listen? Do they send off yearnings into the night, over across the waters of separation? I do. I know. I do. I missed them though, didn’t I? I will wear them, swathed around me in their kind understanding of my superficial whims. Alone? Me? Alone? How possible? I have a page, white and stern, but nonetheless a real page. And I have the vestments of dreams, where ties turn to love pennies that echo down into the wishing well and unite with them in a sloppy watery entwinement. Me, them and the dreams.