Night and Day

To Blossom

The sun blossoms that it might wither. Its light shines to give birth to darkness. The cycle of the earth is to give us life that we might know death. All that is is so that we might one day know what is not; that we might know nothing — be nothing. Nothing at all.

There is nothing. The absence of meaning. The absence of purpose. The air has become too thin not that it is lacking but that it cannot be taken in breath. So lose the words their meaning. They cannot be heard. Only thoughts growing louder and louder, more desperate and desperate. The beating heart beats faster. They know love that they might know absence. They know joy that they might know pain. They are created whole that they might be broken.

And eyes are made to be capable of perceiving the beauty of this world. That when the beauty is lost to the mundane, they might perceive the gore that remains. Beauty is known that all might become hideous.

As are we human that we might know what it means to be alive. To be the self to become nobody. To know what it means to be cast to the depths of the despair that is the loss of humanity itself.

And all this is that one day the sun might blossom its light once again, revealing to us the beauty of this world. To know and understand truth and beauty. Because to see it fills the void created within us. A void that cannot be filled. And thus, we are empty. To look out upon a world made whole, that we might never belong.

The Dancing Sun

I sang to the sun, and it danced. It spoke back with an accompaniment of flames. Light to the earth, life to the flowers — who blossom in the absence of rain. Yet the time shall pass as the sun sings in the sky, whose allure bids flowers their demise. To bloom is to die, to know beauty is to wither, for to see that a stalk should break through the earth is to know that the end shall come in time that sure enough does come. And me with it.

To feel the warmth of flames so far, whose distance keeps me safe. To shield my eyes from light so bright, who faces away to spare my sight. That where I go should follow life, its bringer, the caster of shadow; shadow, whose darkness leads me.

I need not look behind. I need not know the night. Ever follows day. Ever burns the flame. No tear I shed might stand the heat. No wall might stand to hide. I walk through the forest in search of peace, yet flowers bloom and wither before me. Only in my shadow cast is space yet left to stand.

The dancing sun calls out to me. My hope has turned to shame. I smell the smoke. I feel the pain. All I am is merely mortal. To look to the heavens was to seek my demise, now I am haunted by the sun. So I turn around to face my fears. And I am greeted by desolation.

Beauty After All

I held my hand into the light, reached out from behind the shade. I felt the warmth of the sun which I had not known, saw the sight of a person I had not seen. So out I stepped into the world, embracing the burden of the sun. But the light that fell carried with it no weight. In the light was my burden lifted.

The face before me became so clear, the voice I heard, I recognized. A name, it called out. To me, reached a hand. And I took hold. And onwards we walked towards the sun. And she spoke:

The sun shall set as sure as day. The night shall come to take us away. But if you are to hold on fast, never shall the night come to last. Should you find us far apart, listen to the voice that calls to your heart. The setting sun is not to fear. The night should beg us to shed a tear. Hear you now this voice I speak. Know it that distance not make us weak.

I looked into her eyes and saw the reflection of the sun. Whose setting lines reflected her flames. And into them I gazed as the light died away. And in darkness, I felt her grasp. So came the chill of the night. In the cold, I could hold no longer.

My fault I realized far too late. As I called out to the silence whose darkness bid me mockery. To stand so close yet be so far, to let time run its course. So I called out to the night who bore no moon. Until the sun rose on empty land. Who blossomed flowers that bore no beauty. Whose heat bore no warmth. Until as surely as came the day, the sun did set again. As no longer could I call. And in the silence of the night, I listened:

The sun shall shine again one day, but only if you choose to stay. To bear this darkness you have wrought. To lose the hope that you have sought. To look unto the darkened sky and ask yourself the reasons why. In the day, it was not the sun that shone. It was the beauty of the seeds that your efforts had sewn. So when the darkness seems too vast, reach out your hand that it be held fast.

And into the darkness, I did reach. And from the shadows was I met. Until the night became again the day. And the sun did shine so ever bright. And the beauty of the setting sun was none but a reflection.

Ashes in the End

Who I am in the day is nothing more than my unspoken words in the night. To see the light shine upon a face so far away is ever a greater burden than to hear its call from the unknown of the dark. It is better to ask, “Who calls?” than to see the stilled lips of a face known.

When the night comes, I hear her songs. When comes the day, I watch her dance. I do not. For I know not how. How to sing. How to dance. How to be. And yet she watches. And yet she listens. The only motion that I know is the waving of my hands. The only voice that I speak is the asking who she is.

The only touch I have ever known is the farthest reach of her shadow in the setting of the sun. Who I am in the night is nothing more than my echoes of the experiences of the day. Who draw their tears and wear their lines. Who beg the shadows their mercy. It is better to meet the eyes of one who looks than to hear the voice of lips unknown.

To know what? Familiarity? And were we not alone? Perhaps if the sun were to shine its light from directions I have yet to see; would I then come to know the truth of this place I have come to call my home? And what is that? But a place in the light of the day.

Who I am and where I am is lost to the grip of the night. Anyone. Anywhere. I would not know. If not for the songs I hear in the wind in whose silence I would freeze. And the shining sun may shine on all: what is known; and that which is not. On anyone. Anywhere. On faces yet to be seen.

So when the face I see so far becomes one so familiar, I look to the sun who dances before me, who answers my calls of the night: “I am the sun, the one you know. You need not anyone else.” As it dances. As it shines. As the light it sheds sets fire to the wind. As its careless passion would burn through the world. As the uttering of its voice puts end to the peace that is known only in the night.

As the turning of the day to the turning of the night turns the wheel of desire. To sing. To dance. To join. To know. To know what? I would beg to ask the moon. But the moon laughs in silent mockery. Enemy of the day, traitor of the night. She hides in darkness with nothing lost. Thus am I victim to the night. And the sun in his pride who shall not cease. I am victim to the day. To know only a face. To know only a voice. And nevermore shall I know more.

What does it matter? — when what is frozen in the night turns to ashes in the day? When at last I realize that all that was in need be done was to take but a step in the direction of the face that met mine with a smile? — each and every day in the light of the sun. Who greeted my calls with song? — begging harmony I dared not answer out of tune. What does it matter? — when my first step is taken in the ash? When there is nothing to desire in the end. 

And yet when comes again the night, I hear the whispers of song on the wind.