Random Thoughts In The Dark...

"I wanna go home... Lemme go home..." sang Michael Buble.

"I am alone, at peace -- my mind roams..." was my reply. Seated in this foreign darkness with my back proped against a crib of wood and metal, I felt strangely at ease. As if something in me just sighed. And it does feel good. Perhaps for once, the poet in me will lay down his pen for a while.

Like a phantom flame, my laptop screen illuminates my face and adds a dull glow to my sun-burnt skin. In the background, Michael was still singing... His siren song calling to my sleepless soul as an invitation to a dream far away: a dream that was like this darkness, all around me, undefined, natural but yet so comforting.

Perhaps it's the pant of the ceiling fan, its beastly motors beating the enslaved air in the room, forcing them to bend to my implicit demands for cool. Perhaps its the foreign furnishings and furniture. I've always found a strange comfort in foreign places, as if we have all been granted a golden chance to start afresh. But then, there is always a hint of sadness that follows this: the knowledge that there is a music in your soul that follows your travels no matter where you go.

For now, this poetry sings to me. For now, your music fills this space. For now, my fingers don't feel so clumsy as they dance with tendrils of darkness. For now, my mind is calm and my heart hums a tune in unison with the darkness.

Perhaps its the image of a mountain range, its shape and contours familiar to the hikers that hug it, crowned in clouds and a lazy morning sun. A shadow of giant, layed on its side barely awake in the rays of gold. While untold stories have been woven into its trees and streams, for now, this hiker sees a gentle giant. And there is a strange comfort in watching in wait... waiting for the giant to stir.

The darkness is filled with my tapping and thoughts. My poetry has been reduced to sputters of late. The words don't rhyme like they used to, and the art no longer whispers to me. The halls of this museum are silent for now; I have only my footsteps to echo down these walkways of marble -- so cold but so beautiful.


JKLM