by Steven Francis

Created on: March 09, 2010   Last Updated: March 10, 2010

Pale Clouds In The Relics Of Night

The time is exactly 1:50am on a very early (and cold) Thursday morning, and here I still sit, picking at my thoughts and tapping them out on the keyboard. There is no use in trying to sleep, I have taken four sleepers but the arm of Morpheus won't reach out for me quite yet. Daylight must be closer to the horizon for me to even attempt laying my head on a pillow.

All lights are off so only the computers background light is on, bathing my face in a hood of white whilst all around me is black like the very pit of misery. Spirits of the dead are no doubt hovering behind me, gentle veil eagles that do no harm. In fact they spur me on because without my iron faith that death is not an end I would be a sorry and broken man.
These hours are desolate, not a hint of warmth or comfort, and as I am fond of saying, illness and mortality seem more inevitable now than at any other time of day. I feel it now; weak, morbid, slightly anxious and certain death will meet me in my next footstep. The twilight hours, when the sun is gone and sly things creep about in hedgegrows, are truly the dungeons of time. Dank little places where if rest comes hard one is doomed to stay, dragging every minute as if it were a month.
I glance down at the digital clock on the corner of the screen, 2:10am. An hour later I look again, 2:21am it reads. Almost smugly as if it knows I despise sober nights, when seconds are pulled by giant whales and submarines. Clocks have never been of any use to me, indeed they irritate to the chore. Trying to order my life, settle me down into routine when I demand none of it. I thrive in chaos and want to lead as disorderly life as I can before folding my arms and heading to the grave.
The blackness on the other side of the window is utterly pitch, as if a coal skinned demon was pressing his mighty gut against the glass. No sane man, woman or beast should be conscious, but I sit like a leper cast out from the coma village while the clean people gather in their dreams for buttery scones and weird tasting tea.
Time is in syrup, lallygagging on a lazy shift. I could almost imagine being a condemned man on death row, living out his last night on earth but of course the wretched inmate will have his sleep when morning arrives (albeit a permanant one), whereas I will still have a struggle. Sleep comes hard for me because in order to sleep easily one must abandon thoughts and ideas, never an easy task to fidgety, creative types.
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