wake up. wake up. it’s almost no longer the morning. it’s the all-time should time of awakening. pressure-bound.
my kidneys are aching. we lost an hour of sunlight. we had to give it back. “thank you for lending it to us,” though really we wished we could’ve kept it. every year we are no better prepared than the last. every year it hits: the inevitability of not only time passing, but time that must trudge through the cold, dark months of fog, drizzle and death. we usually sleep through the hour. we are unaware of the loss until the next day, when something is off, something is not quite right, and the sun sets before we could say goodbye.
would you like to know what you said last night? i wouldn’t expect you to be curious, but i am eager to tell you. something about the language you spoke, the vowels you emphasized, in that in-between state of consciousness and unconsciousness where you whispered your sacred admissions. you spoke through the voice of a teacher, dressed in white, with straps made of twine encircling your torso. you wondered why the blackboard remained free of chalk and dust, and why she wouldn’t move, tied to a chain of her own design. she spoke the same way you did: heavily, in slow, muttered sounds; tales of ruin and loss, confessions from the hollow of her heart.
you hardly recall them in the morning, of course.
the difference this hour makes until it is forgotten.
you’ve come a long way.