Good Night.

I'm usually exhausted by this time of night, my mental state reduced to a lump of melting wax. I thought my transitory insomnia had dissipated for good, but it strikes again, playing its hand in spades. The mountains of my dreams are skull-capped in white, the trees garlanded with carnation lays, the birds decorating each with the wreaths, singing sweetly. The pond frogs hum the cadence of the morning, bagpipes, yes, that will do nicely. The grey sky drizzles its tears over the valley bowl, tears washing the feet of God, gently perfumed with the redolence of pine and floral exuberance.
Drink in this incense prayer, for mine are none so pretty, none so pretty indeed.
Singing, strumming at this guitar, staring down the flickering candle, wishing my voice wasn't drier than chalky beef jerky with a side of desert sand, raspy as those frogs might be, not in dreams. Ah, my idealism says my flats are just sharps from below, a piquancy of music, perhaps. Judge not my music, prithee, lay your hardness aside and your hearts before, and let's sing. Sing the songs of mountains, hills, deer, love, breeze between the leaves, dewdrops on flower petals, snowflakes on the rabbit's nose, hibernating bear, leaping fish in sunset's last green explosion, lunar eclipse on a night of naked joy, racing faster than every heartbeat. Let's sing, and remember what's good, and what's good night.



Discussions were good, this night. Enneagram conversations; psychology and competition discussions; dialogues over whether pumpkin, nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, and apple-cider might mix into something tasty, or disastrous; people discussions. I think I'm fairly consistently learning how full of holes my psyche is. We walked through some patterns of psychological taxonomy, and I found myself nailed on almost every parameter, consistent even to the disregard of classification, the grave weakness shared by this psychological collection, the triumphs and hopes of this diagnosed individual. Yes, stuff me in a box, staple it closed, lock me in an attic, neat and disposed. But while I understood most of these things concerning myself, I have gleaned a few tidbits that were interesting. I'd explain what these were, but, unfortunately, my classification tends to secrete this sort of information away, and I cannot break free of this box...