When The Sun Rests

“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”

― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I often find myself lying awake late at night, watching the passing lights of cars driving by my window. It’s comforting for me. Watching these lights reminds me that I’m not alone.

The soft buzz of the fan above me provides a slight white-noise of which I can focus on.

The pullies dangling down from the light at the center of the fan tend to be manipulated by the wind of the fan. As the speed of the fan increases, as does the sway of the strings.

Nighttime is a difficult time for me.

I’m alone with my thoughts, the same thoughts I spend most of my day trying to avoid.

These damaging thoughts penetrate my mind as I try to focus on falling asleep.

Anxiety. Worries. Stress. Depression.

The bottle has been a comfort of mine for some time now, as has been the herb.

I love the plant. It’s coloring, its scent. It does not have the most popular of scents, perhaps that is why I like it; it reminds me of myself.

I’ve never been the favorite; I’m the backup by choice. Primary when other options have been exhausted.

This is what my mind tells me.

I hear the pitter-patter of my cats running amock through my apartment. I hear the deep breaths of my fiancée sleeping next to me. And yet my mind tells me I am alone.

Fighting against the creations of my mind is paradoxical in nature, but necessary in cause. If I surrender to the imaginations of my mind, then I will be lost in a pit of despair. Yet by not surrendering to the false realities I imagine, I am embracing myself for who I am.

But is this who I am, or is this who I imagine myself to be? How am I to fight the only world in which I am able to perceive?

I’ve been told countless times that the world is as I perceive it to be. I am in control of my own fate. Blank slate. Keywords, really. All of them nothing more than vocabulary thrown at me through talks of philosophy and lecture.

Every coin has two sides.

Every day has its night.

Warm things cool, and ice turns to water. Solid to liquid.

Transitions are a part of life, just as they are a part of writing.

In many ways, writing reflects life.

In my case, I write as a direct reflection of my life. I have my own click bait articles which I shamelessly churn out on a near-daily basis, then I also have articles such as this where I put my thoughts onto paper so that I may document the words running through my mind.

Every pencil has lead, and every pen has ink.

Some things need other things to function. It’s natural and is by all means acceptable. But when one person needs another person, they are devalued, seen as weak. Are we not just things? Individual objects motioning through time, largely on our own, pursuing goals that will ultimately come to an end when we die.

Why do we care about our own intrinsic value yet devalue others? We tend to devalue others who show passion in things that we do not understand, yet get upset when others don’t understand us.

Maybe we need to learn to understand that we don’t need to understand others.

Maybe we don’t need to understand ourselves.

Maybe.