Tender is the night

I suddenly woke up as if an alarm was going off somewhere. A high-pitched noise drilling holes into the fabric of reality. But there is nothing. The silence is complete, definitive, almost painful.

I dreamt of you. Again. You were looking at me with that look of calm detachment. Not even disappointment. Not even resentment. Just coldness, as if you were looking through me, beyond me, to whatever else was there once I was out of the picture.

In my dream, I started to cry right there, in front of you. I was crying like a child. Let me rephrase that: I was a child crying. I had given up any pretense of adulthood and I was spiraling down. Shedding all the layers and the masks. Regressing to adolescence, childhood, and further on, towards that darkness beyond which I could not look, I could not see anything. That darkness with a ball of electrical thread furiously pulsating and glowing at its core.

And these steely eyes follow me down into the abyss, reversing the arrow of time. I can see them in my young adulthood. I am haunted by them in my troubled teens. They burn like a wound that would not heal through my childhood. It’s only when I approach that glowing ball of vital energy at the start of it all that I lose track of them. It’s only when I am close to that first seed of energy that I stop feeling their cold indifference projected onto me like a laser beam.

There’s a howl in the distance. Probably a fox venturing out in the city suburbs to look for food. The darkness has grown thick and heavy.

It’s that time when people turn in their sleep, mutter unintelligible things, and go back into numbness. Touched by a ghost hand softly shaking them, silently asking for something. Shadows tremble in the flickering silver light of bedrooms across the city, like mist moving over the lake. The forgotten ones. The unforgiven ones. The ones that cannot find peace.

It’s that time when I am stuck with myself, raw and tender. Picking up bits and pieces of free-floating self. Banging against a wall where there used to be a door.

Before the night is through, if it will ever be, I will fall asleep and face those eyes once more. I will stand their heavy piercing stare and not turn away. I will stand like a wall until their cold intensity will start to fade away. Until they will become again your eyes facing my eyes, each of us lost in their own maze of stories, desperately searching outwards for the love we cannot give ourselves.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s