What does one become when the force to move, the voice to push and never stop, drifts away to dream on forgotten beaches that sift, grain by grain, away into the vast eternity of ocean lost within the architecture of the brain?
There are nights where I feel that I have lost myself inside of me, exchanged the parts I love for ones I never knew were here, and the I who is we grows confused, languid.
There are nights where I feel alone. Where even the moon won’t glow, won’t guide me, the way she always promised.
There are nights where we grow, expand beyond our skin, crawling through the atmosphere, tasting stars until we are them and they are us.
There are nights where I hope to never wake up and so I stay awake and battle the demons, the ghosts, forever haunting, their cold airs.
There are nights like these, alone with all of us, the darkness all round, surrounding, consoling, antagonising, growing.
There is so much to talk about, so much to say, about Occupy Wall Street, about life, about being american, about carrying the burden of imperialism, about my travels to Japan and China, about the novel soon to be published, about the ones I keep to myself, about the words I don’t write, about my failing voice and broken heart.
There are nights when who we are falls apart.
There are nights where all I do is think of you.
There are nights we long to forget you. For you to forget us.
Let all the world swirl away, die away, get caught in our throat and choke away.
There are nights I must rebuild, reconstruct, remake us. Sometimes better, always the same but never quite who we thought.
These are the worlds we belong to, the nights we dream through: awake, eyes closed, the words chewed to oblivion.
I hide within us and promise, Always tomorrow.
We will live again, but first we must die.
There are nights meant for dying and those meant for living.
Rarely are they meant for sleeping.
And so we live.
And so we remember.