Night Watch

Hiding from the light, disappearing from the world.  Painting rainbows in shades of gray.

Tears, constant tears.  Why  can’t I stop?  What is the psycho-physiology of constant crying.  When my father died, I could not cry.  When his brother died, I could not cry.  When my sisters married, I could not cry.  If grief or joy could not cause tears to flow, why can’t I stanch the tide now?

My soul is tired.  Sleep to turn the daytime dark.  Dracula-like, I wake after dark to  hide in a nightness where there is no mortal stirring.  No sounds of laughter from the street.  No sound of tires spinning on the road.  No echo of children’s laughter from the playground.

Dial a phone to hear the familiar voices of friends and then drift off into world of fuzzy buzzings. A voice within cries out, but it stifled.  Must keep up pretenses.  No one has permission to see your pains.

Anger, An urge to run without expending the energy required.  a life as an unknown in Siberia or some tropical atoll.  Somewhere where there isn’t a distant, deaf god who delights in dispensing blackness.

Mustn’t think of sleeping Hamlet’s rest.  Heaven is not open for those who only see Hades.  Great fear that the pain wouldn’t stop in that sleep with unknown dreaming.  eternal retribution, another lifetime added.  Karmic goals unfilled with additional penalties.  What is normal contentment?  What gene was I given to disrupt a delicate bio-chemical process.  Can I give it back and exchange it for a more perfect chromosome?  A line of crape threads through the branches.  Some medicated with rum; some with wanton sex, some with detachment.  The modern way is by inducing chemicals.  “a status symbol to be on Zoloft.”  Why do I not feel a charter member of the shining, special ones? I want to be small. Something small enough to be petted and called, “My pet.” A stoking caress and a warm body to sit at the foot.

Chocolate milk, hot and steaming brings a temporary respite.  Ice cream, thick slab of bread.  Eating constant comfort in the mouth.  O, the dearth of energy to chew. A rolling queeziness at the thought of making a decision.


A curious restlessness.  Things going undone, but with a profound neglect.  Dropped and left.  A littered park with 4 walls.  The eye avoids the beautiful creations of artist’s visions.  They pain the eyes and taunt the hearing.  no, the loveliness is not real.  Cover them over with black gauze.  Mute the colors.

The cat avoids. How comforting to feel its heartbeat on my chest.  A sign of something that is living.  Life from one heart to another.  Even an animal life to perhaps spark my own.

Reaching out.  This is not normal.  Need to tell someone this is not normal.  Normal people are at cheery homes on lovely Sunday nights.  Why disturb the helpers?  It’s their family time.  And all they can offer are words this mind cannot concentrate upon.. 

Oh, the pain of the endless tears.  Radioed voices grate.  The remarkable stupidity of the banter.  The nail-edged dragging of the call of the world. soothing music brings tears. Pop music brings agitation, too much of the rhythm of life.

Mea Cupla.  What have I done that requires this atonement?  “Take a walk” is a web site’s helpful tip.  To where?  The night is as dark as I,  and holds tigers of the mind.  Even Orion has moved away and replaced by unknown signs, veiled in clouds.  A moon lightens a patch; her features dimmed.  Tomorrow the sun will be cold and I will make it dark within my world. 


O for that muse of Shakespear’s fire.  To animate the imagination; to rouse the spirit.  To move the body to a dance of contentment.  But only the faults of other’s inhabit the muse’s chair.  The smugness of those who smile.  The words of those who have learned the techniques and can hear and nod at appropriate times while listening to their inner dialog of life.  False prophets of non-gloom.  Offering pap to lift a heavy, Victorian dark drape.  The $150 a session “I care”, the hastily written script.  A God too busy attending the fall of sparrows, using an abacus to keep track of head hair.

Lord of the depressed, sit quietly by my side tonight.  Place your gentle hand upon my forehead.  Give me dreams of such heavenly beauty that in the morning I can see the afterglow in my gray world.  All I ask is a bit of pink and rose.