Derelict
We were living at a time of derelicts, drunks
Outnumbered in wealth by golden gods
A fight broke out every night
It was starting to seem unavoidable
Thered be fire and stones
And blood and violence
And we were all yearning for peace
Or that’s what we told ourselves
Peace we said
As we drew the hammer above our head
We knew we were losing
It seemed like we always lost
We got used to losing,
Got used to the boiling in our blood
We started to wonder what we’d be without it
It was a time of plenty
And we felt so poor
Even the rich felt poor
Scooping the wealth closed to their breast
We were losing
It wasn’t like the old days any more
When a thought could carry us from the depths
All good thoughts were examined
Scrutinized
Doubted
nothing put down roots
Nothing stuck in the earth
And the earth dried up
It blew away on any strong wind
Living in the Dark
When you work third shift there comes a point where you begin to feel a bit like a vampire. You leave for work at ten and you get home at six. You can go days without seeing the sun. On the occasion when you finally do something in the mid-afternoon (family birthday party, festival, etc...) you find yourself scowling on the verge of hissing at that cruel bright orb in the sky. It's hot and it's bright and becomes a horrendous inescapable presence. You never come around because you live in a separate country as the rest of your social group. When you are there you are a pain in the ass because you are off your schedule and basically jet-lagged when everyone else is just 'enjoying this beautiful sunny day!'
Then there are the benefits, those strange and rare perks of a life lived in the darkest hours of the day. Provided you are someone who likes or can handle being alone, you will have no limit to the solitude you might want. It's quiet throughout the night and that quietude reaches a fever pitch in the small hours of the morning. It's beyond peace and it's beyond tranquility, it is other worldly. In these magical hours creativity feels like it's coming in great torrents and tidal waves. Like that gate barring our access into the creative realm has been unlocked and left unguarded. You form a more personal relationship with the moon and it becomes the cosmic orb with which you most readily identify. The light of the moon and the stars can come to feel serene, where once it felt cold and pale. You learn the value of light when you live in the dark, and whereas the mid-day sun is overly bright and oppressively hot the sunrises you are awake for everyday are warm and glorious.
The Stream
Simply put, he was lost. He sat in befuddled amusement on the small rotted wood bench that was next to the stream. He knew this place. It was very familiar to him, like that photograph sitting on the top shelf of his mothers bookcase. he wiped the sweat from his brow, hot and sticky and much too thick for the bleak fall weather. he did know this place, but like that photograph it felt like a shadow. A place forgotten, or maybe never really known. He slowly got to his feet and his head and bright lights pounded him back down to the bench. The wood creaked.
It was just bizarre and altogether goofy to be so confused. Even when the fog briefly lifted there were questions to be answered, items that seemed out of place. Most of his days of late had been filled with the monotonous routine that comes with living. One day passes, then the next passes and they continue to pass in succession. Without any event to attach to them they all fade in the fog of time. The unnatural and cruel fog of time. it sweeps away all things, he knew this, but why then do memories flood back from long ago. Faces and names from half a lifetime ago seem vivid yet any memory of this damn stream is vague and obscure. The water babbled over the rocks mocking his confusion. He slammed his fist into his knee. He knew this shouldn't be so difficult. he had dealt with more complex ideas, he had dedicated his life to more complex ideas. Now he just needed to remember where he was going. It shouldn't be this difficult
His mother's picture was there on top of the small book shelf in her room. He and his brothers sat there with goofy looks on on their faces, fishing poles dangling in the water of the great river. They had often fished there on hot summer days.
He heard a woman approach from further up the bank of the stream. She waved her hand and smiled at him. he instinctively smiled back. As she drew closer her expression changed to one of concern, and fear.
"Don, you're bleeding. What happened to your head?" he rubbed his forehead. Still damp but more sticky, more thick.
"Oh, I must have gotten confused" She helped him to his feet, and examined his head.
"Well lets get you back up to the house, and clean you up." she leaned in and kissed him.
"then we'll get you into the office to have that checked out". he felt himself smile as he walked beside her. She was warmth, she was kindness, she was happiness, she was love. He knew these things, no memories were necessary.