Digitalis : Memory

At four o'clock in the morning

early

while midnight is still tossing and turning upon dark sheets

and dawn has yet to put its cool pink hands upon his ebon body

the mind clears

and facts and emotions fall into organized loops

and you realize who people are

and what they mean to you

as if unearthing a forgotten treasure

beneath the rainbow's end

the meaning comes

and it is everlasting.

She was never good with letters. As long as she had been writing them, they had always seemed so stiff and insincere, as if her emotions had somehow grown stale inside the envelope as it passed through various districts and towns, meaning bleeding from the dried tree pulp at every royal blue mailbox. So she decided she wouldn't write one.
But it did not mean that the feelings were not there. In actuality, they were very much there, manifesting as a lump in her throat that she would carry between meals like a nest cradles a gestating egg. And it grew, until tears would spill down her face, and they would ask her why she cried--and what could she say? She cried because she was a horrible person? That she could not cry when she had been required to cry, and so she was crying from guilt now? It wasn't understandable. So she would let them hold her while warm drops tumbled from her face, and with every gesture of kindness, she felt worse.
And the gestures were innumerable, and she realized how many people cared for her, and she wondered why she couldn't return the care she so obviously had for them...but as it has been said before, she wasn't very good at those things.
Ordinarily, she would have made them laugh, for her laughter was like water against sand, mirth smoothing the troubled coastline of a soul--but she didn't feel much like laughing anymore. Silence was left in its place. And she felt as if she had let them down. It wasn't until much later that she realized that she did not always have to speak, to entertain...to listen would be enough.
And she decided that was what she would do--she would listen. Still, there were things that needed to be said, emotions that needed to be expressed, appreciation that must be made known...but as it has been said, she had never been good at those things.
The letters never seemed sincere, and she had never been good with the spoken word. Phrases spurt from her mouth with the grace and elegance of a frenzied sow.
But she had to say something.
And at four o'clock in the morning, in the last hour of Darkness' reign, she did. She thought long and hard about the people in her life, the ones who had supported her when she was unwilling to support herself, the ones who put aside their own troubles for a moment to hear her own, the ones who cheered her to the finish line before she had even begun the race, and she thanked them--for even the smallest words of encouragement and support, because they meant that much to her...even if she had never told them. Two simple words would tell them now.
Thank you.


	At four o'clock in the morning
	early
	while midnight is still tossing and turning upon dark sheets
	and dawn has yet to put its cool pink hands upon his ebon body
	the mind clears
	and facts and emotions fall into organized loops
	and you realize who people are
	and what they mean to you
	as if unearthing a forgotten treasure
	beneath the rainbow's end
	the meaning comes
	and it is everlasting.
	She was never good with letters. As long as she had been writing them, they had always seemed so stiff and insincere, as if her emotions had somehow grown stale inside the envelope as it passed through various districts and towns, meaning bleeding from the dried tree pulp at every royal blue mailbox. So she decided she wouldn't write one. But it did not mean that the feelings were not there. In actuality, they were very much there, manifesting as a lump in her throat that she would carry between meals like a nest cradles a gestating egg. And it grew, until tears would spill down her face, and they would ask her why she cried--and what could she say? She cried because she was a horrible person? That she could not cry when she had been required to cry, and so she was crying from guilt now? It wasn't understandable. So she would let them hold her while warm drops tumbled from her face, and with every gesture of kindness, she felt worse. And the gestures were innumerable, and she realized how many people cared for her, and she wondered why she couldn't return the care she so obviously had for them...but as it has been said before, she wasn't very good at those things. Ordinarily, she would have made them laugh, for her laughter was like water against sand, mirth smoothing the troubled coastline of a soul--but she didn't feel much like laughing anymore. Silence was left in its place. And she felt as if she had let them down. It wasn't until much later that she realized that she did not always have to speak, to entertain...to listen would be enough. And she decided that was what she would do--she would listen. Still, there were things that needed to be said, emotions that needed to be expressed, appreciation that must be made known...but as it has been said, she had never been good at those things. The letters never seemed sincere, and she had never been good with the spoken word. Phrases spurt from her mouth with the grace and elegance of a frenzied sow. But she had to say something. And at four o'clock in the morning, in the last hour of Darkness' reign, she did. She thought long and hard about the people in her life, the ones who had supported her when she was unwilling to support herself, the ones who put aside their own troubles for a moment to hear her own, the ones who cheered her to the finish line before she had even begun the race, and she thanked them--for even the smallest words of encouragement and support, because they meant that much to her...even if she had never told them. Two simple words would tell them now. Thank you.