Life can be boring and beautiful at the same time; despite my better intentions, it seems I live for the dull ache that floods my heart during the comatose days of summer. I bury myself in the reserved practices of a man overlooked by youth, seeing life as but a breeze that briefly flirts with my face… yet I breathe the pockets of thought that prove influential even as they grow stale; rare retrievals of the inklings often lost in the abysmal silence of a long morning drive.
I’ve wasted so many warm nights at the mercy of the city’s nocturnal pull, while restrained by the firm, motherly arms of my hermitage. I sulk my story to the stars, while miles away buildings bejeweled with neon lights paint a world ineffable to my experience. This world makes love without me, makes tears without me, makes bonds without me… where the clinking of martini glasses and the ramblings of midnight jazz carry on like a lullaby in vain, accompaniment to the varied stories of sleepless sinners in repose.
I long to taxi through cerulean alleys where flickering signs stain the puddles that mirror in reply, and I dream of dancing with danger as she lures me into night club corners in a dress that glimmers like serpent scales. I want to feel the crisp morning air in motion as I lean out of a limousine window, gazing upon painterly skies from a highway bridge that sparkles with rows of headlights. I want to breathe the wind that willing insomniacs taste in mouthfuls as they shout with victorious glee, and make the glorious outside world my home… in all its dynamic shades and forms. That bridge would carry me to my quarters just as the sun severs from the horizon… only then would I surrender to the cool sheets of idleness, this time next to the warm body of a newfound love. Instead I am left to ponder alone in claustrophobic circles of innocence, only moments away from turning off my bedside lamp and drifting into torpid slumber.
There is a sad victory for the sheltered one who waits to be rescued from familiar shadows… there is hope that, at least for a moment, connects my loneliness to the life beyond the dome. Nyctophiles tire as nights of glamorous indulgence give way to rust-colored dawns… Sinful escapades simmering down to their final embers, left to yield under flaming clouds that crown a populace newly laid to bed. For the duration of the dawn, we are equals… the heathens of another bygone night having submitted to temporary stagnation, caught between the boring and the beautiful in a realm that I call home.
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