Pure Ramblings

Who can blame sleepless nights when the light of the night seems to be incipient within our consciousness, slowly dripping through our mind's eye and flowing through our finger tips, craving just one more page of Poe's macabre work that's just so tiltating, focused and, perhaps over-abundantly used undefined illness, madness and stock characters, but still, so structurally established that it's hard not to give way to his structural symbolism and the Gothic Literature that everyone is bound to find glistening in the dark hours of the night, attractive like a Siren who is certainly deadly and certainly the soldier is aware of the potential drawing threat, who is ready to embark on his new sexual conquest, hoping, almost confident he can get away with it?

The night, thus stretches into the morning as our credulity thrusts us into the next line, pushing us into the next page, perhaps creating images that stirs our soul in all the right and the wrong ways, in a miraculous way that seems resonant to our antebellum mind, a little rebellious but further craving the black poison that we just can't do? Finding us at the advent of the morning, not so much in glory and in welcoming, open arms that we seem to hate the ending of our sizzling adventure with the cadaverous existence of death. After all, who doesn't think of Frankestein, or Dracula every one in a while, where the impossible seems to come alive, quite probably with a little proving and a little straining of our credulity all in a night's work to open the mind's eye to the way words are strung together on a string of pearl, reinstating a cliche as we turn to run away from in...what's there to be original about after thousands of years of writing?

The night is alive, stirring, it's dull and saddened, it's imbued with evil, fused with the possibility of chances and opportunities. With a little jazz in the background, one or two vanilla spice candles burning, scars of the heart that we all secretly wear, a little wavering hope that seems to flicker with our fleeting emotions and the changing status in the world, it's so logical how the night influences the very existence of our beings, the core of our souls like two windows staring out from it's throne. A little red courage to keep us going, the way it shines in the glass, romantically charming and so fluent in all the languages that we whisper within words and breaths, the ones we refuse to speak at any cost, even if it costs us tears and love at the very end....With so many doors to open, unending into eternity, morning only comes to soon...

So who can blame the night? When such lurid and lustrous creatures, living and non-living seduce us, tempt us and succumb to our own whims and wishes that we follow it through all of its incarnations, blindly like following the Apostles' creed, forgetting Night has her own creed which is unforgivingly punishing.