Silent Soliloquies

The man knew better. He had reached that painfully pivotal point when it became pointless to try and continue. And yet, trying was the irony of it; trying something which must come effortlessly. The harder he tried the more he failed and recognition of this fact only made it worse. It was a cruel cycle for which success was not an option.

Synapses on fire with the urgency of an impatient child when all was wanted was to be left in peace. Eyelid-light while bodyheavy was not an unfamiliar dilemma to him. The best of enemies they were and surrender the only cure.

"Why wasn't a day just a bit longer?" he wondered. "Thirty hours should do it. That would surely solve daylight nights." A thought only adding fuel to the fire, "Which planet spins slow enough to allow my dense sponge to absorb on time? Are they missing anyone?" Once again, a pointless proposition knowing his curse would just the same turn this sixteenth into that alienated twenty-second.

Feet on the floor. Hand on the door. The dark cut only by electric, red, meaningless numbers. "At least the owls are awake" he muses. "Rodents aren't what I have in mind though." Everything but.

Far too late for coffee and too early for food. What to do. Twenty-four is short and forty-eight deliriously long. Comfort at this hour is a dream. A distant quixotic dream. Almost there. Always always almost there.