The Small Hours

A devilish internal unknown truth, unannounced, abruptly screamed in or near my unprepared ear may have been compelled to cleave early morning's torpor into two whimpering halves. Sometimes it has been precisley that. And sometimes it's only an innocent cacophony of fighting cats. Usually it's not even that. More often than not it's no more than an awkward silence between my marrow and the dark. But there's usually something. In the couple of hours before the righteous alarm sounds, I wake before I should wake. And in these long moments, two hours, maybe more, I am resentfully at one with the light. The words, the deeds, the maniacal designs, all make the world of sense, and perhaps even sense of the world. As if to make a mockery of my comfort and warmth, invariably I'm permitted to fade just half a moment before the righteous alarm sounds. Then the righteous alarm sounds, and cleaves early morning's surety into two contrite halves. By the time I step out of the shower, the words, the deeds, the maniacal designs have retreated to the bedside drawer. It is then and there that my loudest absurdities sheepishly ebb and die. 24th July 2018