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Let's go to bed
Dec. 5th, 2012 07:50 pmThe days become short and there is a moody antagonism in that. A sense that these are days that should be wasted, overtaken and then discarded. As if nothing of merit could happen. When we were young under the stars I'd look up and hold her hand and say with a longing (because I was that sort of a boy) "What a shame that the long nights are wasted on the winter." Maybe I was crossed by stars at an early age, dreaming without thinking of different climes or planets. How the world could be, always near to my thoughts.
Now we count down days until the world will end once more. When it ended last time I went into a fugue, a danger overtaking me - I tried and failed to find a bridge to leap off of, and settled instead for coffee at dawn and it was not cold, or if it was I was stoic. First day of a thousand year epoch and I remember it being balmy for January, I walked forever all that morning and never did get kissed. Heartbreak and the sullen tales of it - like dreams, they only interest you.
I've been told and heard that people don't like to hear your dreams but I do, I love them, want to hear every dream anyone ever had. You tell me history and I think it's facts, you tell me dreams, tell me Bonaparte's dreams, I'd say they were true, crossing rivers on horseback all that time ago. What's the world but what it is, by accidents and the intentions of others long ago, long gone - that's what the world is made of. Intentions and facts. No one will blame you if you find yourself beside these things, standing and waiting for the world to end - why not? You deserve a turn or want one - and that's close enough.
Once we argued if anyone deserves anything. I said that yes, by virtue of being, sure. I was magnanimous, and not made less so by the intervening years. Yes. Everyone should have what they want. In dreams at least. Dreams are enough no? They aught to be. Considered as true with no concern for fact, what's the world but fact given the reins, let's spend our lives denying common occurrences why don't we? Turn inward and see what's got our hearts ticking thump thump thump.
The year ends, cold and dark and we're in a chill wind slumped over desks, waiting. They ask you "what would you do if you knew that this was the last day of the world?" They don't ask it exactly but they ask you things that mean that. They say: "How are you today?" They say: "What did you do last night?" They say these questions and what they mean to ask is: "Can you change the things about my life that I want changed? Are you able?" And you have to wonder what power they'd have, in them, what it is that's in them that would burst free and shake the earth if they'd let it. "What would you do if this was the last day of the world?" If you got that extra moment of prescience to burst out of your constructed, obligatory self and do what is in you to do. Maybe you'd like an end to the world, just this once, so you'd have that in you, to do what is in you to do. Maybe.
But long nights are wasted on the cold dead of winter, the stars don't wheel overhead, they merely glitter and taunt unreachable. Stories of goddesses no more real or false than myths about light years and parallax - what's the difference after all, to you? Believe facts all day, toil in their service. Know and know and know everything and suppose for the sake of having known something that what you know is a fact. And don't know what you'd do on the last day of the world, because if it comes you're not ready.
You ask me? When you ask me "What did you do last night?" And I hear in your voice that you're searching for another thing that's unattainable and distant - well I'll say "I went to bed and had my dreams."
So long nights aren't wasted, that's what I learned, unless you stay up to see the flimsy stars and forget to spend your every moment sleeping.
Now we count down days until the world will end once more. When it ended last time I went into a fugue, a danger overtaking me - I tried and failed to find a bridge to leap off of, and settled instead for coffee at dawn and it was not cold, or if it was I was stoic. First day of a thousand year epoch and I remember it being balmy for January, I walked forever all that morning and never did get kissed. Heartbreak and the sullen tales of it - like dreams, they only interest you.
I've been told and heard that people don't like to hear your dreams but I do, I love them, want to hear every dream anyone ever had. You tell me history and I think it's facts, you tell me dreams, tell me Bonaparte's dreams, I'd say they were true, crossing rivers on horseback all that time ago. What's the world but what it is, by accidents and the intentions of others long ago, long gone - that's what the world is made of. Intentions and facts. No one will blame you if you find yourself beside these things, standing and waiting for the world to end - why not? You deserve a turn or want one - and that's close enough.
Once we argued if anyone deserves anything. I said that yes, by virtue of being, sure. I was magnanimous, and not made less so by the intervening years. Yes. Everyone should have what they want. In dreams at least. Dreams are enough no? They aught to be. Considered as true with no concern for fact, what's the world but fact given the reins, let's spend our lives denying common occurrences why don't we? Turn inward and see what's got our hearts ticking thump thump thump.
The year ends, cold and dark and we're in a chill wind slumped over desks, waiting. They ask you "what would you do if you knew that this was the last day of the world?" They don't ask it exactly but they ask you things that mean that. They say: "How are you today?" They say: "What did you do last night?" They say these questions and what they mean to ask is: "Can you change the things about my life that I want changed? Are you able?" And you have to wonder what power they'd have, in them, what it is that's in them that would burst free and shake the earth if they'd let it. "What would you do if this was the last day of the world?" If you got that extra moment of prescience to burst out of your constructed, obligatory self and do what is in you to do. Maybe you'd like an end to the world, just this once, so you'd have that in you, to do what is in you to do. Maybe.
But long nights are wasted on the cold dead of winter, the stars don't wheel overhead, they merely glitter and taunt unreachable. Stories of goddesses no more real or false than myths about light years and parallax - what's the difference after all, to you? Believe facts all day, toil in their service. Know and know and know everything and suppose for the sake of having known something that what you know is a fact. And don't know what you'd do on the last day of the world, because if it comes you're not ready.
You ask me? When you ask me "What did you do last night?" And I hear in your voice that you're searching for another thing that's unattainable and distant - well I'll say "I went to bed and had my dreams."
So long nights aren't wasted, that's what I learned, unless you stay up to see the flimsy stars and forget to spend your every moment sleeping.
