A night thinking.

            It’s 2:30 in the morning again. Eyes reluctant from falling to the seduction of sleep read the harsh neon green glow that forms the symbols of 2:30. Is there any more meaning behind the symbols that stare mockingly back? Not a damn thing to think of. Maybe it is a date. 2/30. A mind races against the mental clock ticking out the maniacal marks of time, hashing out every nanosecond as if it were crucial to the survival of mankind. That cannot be, there is no February 30.  Searching for significance, and there is none to be found, just like this life, it is a futile effort. The clock menacingly blinks to demonstrate the marching of time; a new land mark has been reached 2:31.

            That minute it just slipped by, right through the grasp of these trembling fingers and left its sole observer yearning for another moment of this torturous hell. Could that single minute ever be regained again? Will someday that minute be needed to save the keeper of this watchful eye from a horrible death? That single minute was it a minute too soon, a minute too late, would it make the difference between the right place at the right time and the right place at the wrong time. How could it be gained?

            Another night of thinking and there is no significance in sight. The blank ceiling stares back down upon a face, as its blind eyes try to find more than the nothingness that it is now floating in. A face with nothing, just as this ceiling has to offer. The walls drift up to the ceiling as if to say that they have made it closer to the god of staidness than the worrisome viewer below. Along the walls traces of memories, almost distinguishable as this sleepless night engulfs them, are held just out of grasp as if to taunt this reaching hand. A life so close, but so far away.

            This heart beats out a silent rhythm. It rings through these ears as if each beat was a gun shot or a flare out over the unforgiving land. It is the rhythm for S.O.S. but it does not land on the ears of outsiders.

            The summer’s breeze comes alive and plays with the curtains adorning the window through which the wind forced its entry. The wind, a cooling entity, a welcomed friend, has brought it self back into this life again. Suddenly these blinded eyes are focused more so than before, as they stare out the window, where the curtains are playing an innocent game, and come to focus on the most beauty that has been lain before them all night, the stars.