The night is a paradox …
I spend the daylight hours anticipating the wash of dusk, knowing that my precious children will retire with the sun, and I will get that sought after time alone.
There are no childish parodies ringing through the corridors, no blatant demands or protestations consuming my focus, no laughter and play bouncing off the walls. There is only me in the dark, and the voices in my mind.
It is the time when my emotions – repressed and superseded by day – unfurl and filter through the space. Like a snail’s feelers, tentatively reaching out to test the saftey of the surrounds.
It is the time that I reflect on my life, and just how much it does not resemble the one I want to be living.
It is the time I have the freedom to write, in my blue broken armchair in the lounge.
It is the time when my eyes flick to the pink bejewelled urn that holds my mother’s mortal remains, which rests on the mantle, below the beautiful portrait of my grandmother.
It is the time that memories of the past trickle through my consciousness, showing me visions of my mother and my grandparents being happy in this room.
It is the time I freshly realise that I am alone now; that I have lost too many people that I once shared this space with.
It is the time when loneliness creeps across the wooden floorboards, and seeps through my soul like a grey whisper.
It is the time I ponder the choices I have made by day, and I endlessly check and re-check whether they align with who I am.
It is the time I consider how my children are growing in this world, and what I am writing on the slate of who they will become.
It is the time I mull over the legacy I am creating, and the one I want to leave, and the time to debate whether or not they align.
It is the time that guilt and grief come for me. The time that I sit in stillness, and watch them slowly apparate in the corner recesses of the room, waiting to slink forth and consume me.
It is the time when I wonder if I can do this – if I can keep going, or if I am, in truth, too broken to ever fully heal and become the person I want to be.
It is the time inspiration sweeps through my being with a whoosh of white. The time when I get excited over creative ideas and visions that speak to me and beg me to bring them to life.
It is the time that I account for how many mistakes I have made. The time I calculate my failings and weaknesses, and seek any evidence of improvement.
It is the time I catch sight of my hands, as they manically tap at the keyboard, and I momentarily stop and think, my god my skin is ageing … I am ageing.
It is the time I register my mortality and how my experiences on this 33 year journey have aged me.
It is the time I see a picture of the younger me in my head, and feel a shiver of fear at just how much that girl had changed. The time I sit in awe over just how much my life did not turn out the way I thought it would when I was 21.
Night is the time when the demons wander brazenly through the maze of my soul, and the light in me battles for precedence.
This post was inspired by the prompt word ‘BEDTIME‘, at The Daily Post.
Image sourced at https://www.google.com.au/search?q=woman+at+home+at+night+photography&biw=1366&bih=631&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiTlKWhporMAhUKEpQKHXxEAJkQ_AUIBigB#tbm=isch&tbs=rimg%3ACdZAbMSi5HDzIjjfNKmGkfiVm0g66Shb3o0vE9CuIBWusQJXvjU_1bKmtq2_1pcda9QaVYmQ4vFuSWflTpj4aHqLwgBSoSCd80qYaR-JWbEZlNDx4ojbuIKhIJSDrpKFvejS8RnCpLpaj9M8oqEgkT0K4gFa6xAhEDgKCcq0r34CoSCVe-NT9sqa2rEQhNAQq8gO2xKhIJb-lx1r1BpVgRL78jK5tMR1AqEgmZDi8W5JZ-VBEzMa614JWC8ioSCemPhoeovCAFEdp3P-YXQxlP&q=woman%20in%20darkness&imgdii=eICl7VSgEv-aMM%3A%3BeICl7VSgEv-aMM%3A%3BJNCF0x2LCve3fM%3A&imgrc=eICl7VSgEv-aMM%3A