I don’t live in the city. I don’t drink on Thursday nights anymore. I don’t know much about the Northwest. I’ve lost touch with creation. I’m repeating the same mistakes. I can sit alone for long periods of time.
The hope UFOs exist. The hope ghosts exist. The hope of heaven. The hope of a parallel universe. The hope of the mystical. The hope of the soul. The hope of karma.
Turning coincidences into magic, and then into hope.
When the clock strikes midnight on Christmas Eve, the animals can talk. The allure and hope of midnight.
Everything grows clearer after midnight. The senses sharpen, dreams come to life, inhibitions take their proper place (as afterthoughts). Sights and smells become crisp, intoxicating, other-worldly. The twinkling night sky, its deepest blue, stretches indefinitely into countless seas of stars and possibilities. More awake. More alive. A waking dream of endless imaginations.
Waiting after midnight for the answer to her world, she crosses her legs and is patient. It’s not a difficult question, after all, but the sun sucked summer of lazy bee droning afternoons and cricket-laden ten o’clocks has worn into the crisply short September night, and she still is on hiatus until he tells her his thoughts. She never thought she’d end like this, an amalgam of not-in-this-world and hell-would-freeze-over, and yet here she is on the corner of I-forgive-you and Let’s Move Past This central. She might as well give up and give in, except either action doesn’t result in a happy ending, either, no matter what the storybooks tell you about accepting fate. She looks up at the moon, fat and so real it is untouchable, and knows that she ought to be someone(thing) different.
The Writer's Block 
I don’t live in the city. I don’t drink on Thursday nights anymore. I don’t know much about the Northwest. I’ve lost touch with creation. I’m repeating the same mistakes. I can sit alone for long periods of time.
The hope UFOs exist. The hope ghosts exist. The hope of heaven. The hope of a parallel universe. The hope of the mystical. The hope of the soul. The hope of karma.
Turning coincidences into magic, and then into hope.
When the clock strikes midnight on Christmas Eve, the animals can talk. The allure and hope of midnight.
I sit alone for long periods of time.
Everything grows clearer after midnight. The senses sharpen, dreams come to life, inhibitions take their proper place (as afterthoughts). Sights and smells become crisp, intoxicating, other-worldly. The twinkling night sky, its deepest blue, stretches indefinitely into countless seas of stars and possibilities. More awake. More alive. A waking dream of endless imaginations.
I wish for a lifetime of those moments.
Waiting after midnight for the answer to her world, she crosses her legs and is patient. It’s not a difficult question, after all, but the sun sucked summer of lazy bee droning afternoons and cricket-laden ten o’clocks has worn into the crisply short September night, and she still is on hiatus until he tells her his thoughts. She never thought she’d end like this, an amalgam of not-in-this-world and hell-would-freeze-over, and yet here she is on the corner of I-forgive-you and Let’s Move Past This central. She might as well give up and give in, except either action doesn’t result in a happy ending, either, no matter what the storybooks tell you about accepting fate. She looks up at the moon, fat and so real it is untouchable, and knows that she ought to be someone(thing) different.
Reblogged this on The Writer's Block.