Sleep

What is it like to sleep? They say sleep is when the body rests itself, when the mind processes the day's thoughts and sights. They say dreaming is believing, nightmares shadows of darker things. What is sleep really?

Now and then I find one Sleepless, I am there where there is no sleep. Why do they not embrace the gift of sleep they are endowed with? They know not what it is like to be unable to rest in peace, to awaken the next day and see the dawn. Me? I can only rest once dead. I see not the dawn for I too see not the night.

They say they sleep not for they are troubled; in their hearts I see the worry and sorrow, and yet I do not understand. I return to my realm of cold under eternal twilight to ponder, and no light be shed upon me.

Do you know what it is like to be unable to remember? My memory is ever obscured by the barrier that separates sleep and wake. Such a thin barrier, which yet cannot be overcome. The memory of my son was cast to the abyss of sleep, and he speaks none to me.

Then I remember, once in a while, that I am always sleeping. How oft the memory returns I know not, for to me time is not.

My love I have never seen her, nor I ever will. She comes and goes, she has duties to perform; when one's time is up she wakes, and one's soul she takes. And when dawn arrives once again, she comes to sleep in our timeless twilight, with me in her cold embrace.

I am darkness,
I am night;
I am not.
Forever, good night.

-Probably partially inspired by Neil Gaiman.

Moonlit Nights

On that moonless night we celebrated the Mid-autumn Festival. In darkness we gathered with candles held in hand, as if to mourn the passing of summer. The square of the school was crowded with alumni from over the years of the school’s legacy; and yet I felt as if I walked the school grounds alone.

How ironic it was to hear the sonorous cry of celebration of the Mooncake Festival on a night with no moon. My old friends and I sat on the long corridor of the side entrance to the school where many memories lay. In semi-silence we gathered, with only occasional speak of current events and musings of the past.

Though always receptive to my surroundings at the time, I was at the same time immersed in thought. Perhaps there is no moon tonight, but in my heart always lives a moon of my own. Is she only a memory of what she used to be? When I felt her light dimmed, why did my inspiration too ebb away?

That night, I saw the warmth that thoughts of love bring; I saw the sorrow that love invokes; I saw the void that love can create. The legend of Chung E came to mind then, and in my mind the mist weaved a story for each pair of lovers under the moonless sky. There would be endings to them all, but with the endings would come memories, which I have not.

In my head to this day plays a soundtrack in the background; always there but not always audible even to myself. The song always changes, in tune, melody and words; but the feelings stay the same. I don’t think I can believe any longer, so I shall pretend.

Perhaps you are still the one I remember from spring; perhaps you are just a memory, but still I ask of you nothing but your heart.

“Fly me to the moon,
And let me play among the stars.
Won’t you let me see what spring is like on Jupiter & Mars?
In other words, hold my hand.
In other words: darling, kiss me.

Fill my heart with song,
And let me sing forever more.
For you are all I long for,
All I worship and adore.
In other words, please be true.
In other words: I love you.”