Dark arches against a pale midnight sky. The full moon illuminates a whole sheet of clouds and casts light.
Shadow and darkness swirl. It always seemed to me that the two are merely one entity, but by time and sun, they are cursed to exist separately. So at night, when they are closest at play, dancing together around the flame of a candle on a journal, I think to myself, the two entities are like many of us.
Nothing is sweeter than when the notes fall into place, and nothing more dissonant than when you slam your hand upon the keys for a crescendo, and find that the position is all wrong.
Distortion. Misplacement. No resolution. I fumble to make the notes right, but I lost the moment. Must start back again. Back again. Back again. Back again. Over and over and over and over.
The shadow of the pen is flitting like a mad crow over the lines. Ink is spilling from shadow, and if my pace wasn’t already fast enough, the candles are being gusted by the wind through my open window, making the shadow seem demonic as it goes every which way across the page, as if the shadow has lost its place.
It’s a cold, bitter wind. The window open as wide as it can be. I want to feel winter one last time. Spring is coming, but I’m not prepared. Give me my winter back. Give me my time back. I’m not ready.
Are they words, or are they notes? Is it poetry, or is it music? I hear both, but neither are very clear. My hand is shaking above the keys. Black and white keys. Pale paper and shadow ink. What’s the difference?
Over and over again.
Give me winter back. I need more time.