The Marooning Hours

These hours are the marooning hours. Where night meets day, seen by myself with no rest, only anxieties seem to offer me company. The birds sing to greet the sun, grass swells up with dew, and faint lights flicker on more with each moment in all the neighbors’ homes. I try to force myself to sleep—to a healthier schedule; no one deserves to live under the dank, black blanket night has to offer. I’m upset and disappointed with myself at each time I wake up and check the clock. I know the marooning hours wait for me, ready to snatch me up and fly me to the very hollow of darkness itself; the endless chasm in the heart that everyone should face and yet, none deserve to be subjected to. I live disharmoniously with those birds that assure another morning has come to promise. I don’t live with the people who rise out of bed, stretch and yawn, rub the sand-crust of their eyes, ready to make a cup o’ joe in getting ahead of the day. I spite these people. I reliably live disparate of them. I always marvel at joining in the splendor of the invigorating energy the air distills solely when the animals wake. I just seem to fall into the habit of crawling the night; being my only consolation against myself. I’m sure that in some way I desire this. I could, and have, corrected this habit, whether for incorrigible timed responsibilities or for health itself. But always do I find myself peeking over my tiredness, pushing myself with each night further away from day, from that warm light. Each night widens the distance between me and the living. Cigarettes are my quiet entourage, my confidants in discussing everything my mind exhumes under this shadowy canvas. I should be dreaming, not thinking. I’ve always wondered if my thoughts were skewed by the time. Is better judgment lying in the day? basking in the sun, ripe for harvest, ignored by a sleeper. My thoughts become cloudier by the minute. It’s harder to focus and collect my thoughts as I forge onto daylight. Yet, there is such an allure. Perhaps the isolation is to credit, but could it be this enchanting, mysterious aura that the marooning hours provide me? Is there a potential only to be tapped by one yearning for the land of the living? Unanswered, more distraught as this writing bears me down to an inappropriate sun, I look at everything in front of my eyes with bewilderment. The colors of my books, the grain of my desk, the flesh of my hands, all come into question. A quality often unobserved has called me to its attention. I’m sure these would be stripped of their attraction during the day, undeserving of such elaboration, but what if the purpose of my journey is to see this? Colors, shape, origin, meaning, every object in the room was suddenly shouting for its due attention! With every elaboration, I grew a deeper appreciation for what occupies my room. Am I delirious? Has lack of rest cost me proper judgement? I don’t know or care; I’m happy. Go to and enjoy your living company! Your coffee as you embrace the new day with the birds and squirrels. Prosper in the air, rich with evaporated mildew and burst pollen. Light your homes in unison! I will bathe in and soak up the fleeting darkness of night, communing with the non-living, deepening my appreciation and understanding of all.