Stars collide in the midnight sky
And form matter transcended from dust.
I could not discern between fabrics of time
And space befitting of us.
Though suns when they shine may be bright for some time
They play on illusion of sight.
When bodies black out they leave us to doubt
With old photographs of light.
The moon hangs low beneath blankets of black
Sprinkled softly with points of white.
And I think to myself while the stars still implode
How I could ever reach such heights.
Sleep could not have come sooner for him, although he wished at once that it had kept its distance from him. In his dreams, his nightmares, he found himself frightened the most. Even when the days dragged on and his body gave way to fatigue he would wish for protection from the unconscious state that worried him so. It was both savior and sacrifice at the same time. Sleep. The sandman's realm. The place where anything can become real and false all together. Imagination meets fear and curiosity in the chambers of slumber. For the man, however, it was more a prison, a punishment if you will, than it was a relief. And when he closes his eyes the terror grips at him even more.
Space is vast. You can tell just by gazing into the night sky. It contains billions upon billions of stars within billions of galaxies. Particles and molecules of dust and matter, hydrogen gas forming together with specks of cosmic material forging itself to newborn nebulas in the white hot genesis of the universe. The cosmos has existed for billions of years. We have existed from merely a handful of years. And in his conscience he is existing within seconds of himself and finding within what no man should ever see.
Awake. Suddenly. Alert. Floating. Through the blackness and the vacuum of space he floated there. It must have been days now, weeks even. The concept of time was lost to him lost to an environment where every hour, every minute, is darkness save for the faint glimmer of a distant star. No, time does not exist out here. Only the memory of time. Time lost and never regained. He mourns time, mourns the absence, the map it creates through the sharp and vague, the net it weaves through the firsts and lasts, the people he once knew and those he will never meet. The loves. The losses. Charting the ups and downs like a master cartographer. He mourns those now. For when you exist in total darkness, and a complete void, what purpose does time continue to serve?
I had dreamed once, long ago, before the darkness came to be. To remember it is a sweet release from the blackness I have come to know to well. I think of it often. In this dream, hard as it may be to believe, I am engaged in a most epic conflict with the sun itself! But I suppose that is what makes dreams, the unbelievable.
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