Thank God for Good Days

A little light slips between the crack in a broken window blind.  Outside, a yellow streetlight glows and one of its thin rays shines into my bedroom, resting on my pillow.  At night, I stare at this little ray of light.  The whole of the room around it is pitch dark, thick with the black, but on my pillow is this singular rebellion against the night.  I don’t know what to think of it.  Part of me takes a pleasure in the stubborn refusal of the light to surrender to the night, but part of me wishes that nighttime were for the dark.  If nothing else, those thoughts that accompany the inactivity of the coming little death are always a bit brighter for the light.  My thoughts occasionally need something small to lighten them.  These nights of late need it all the more.

I love this season.  November must be my favorite month without exception, and only closely followed by December.  The melancholic chill beneath grey skies always relieves a sense of isolation that I often feel upon me.  I have yet to explain the cause of this.  I think my thoughts are often grey (though this need not be a sadness, but a greyness maugre) and that the sky can reflect this same feeling comforts me.  Foolish thought that has been with me for many a year, I know it is.

It is a month to avoid schoolwork.  I would love to lie in the grass, cocooned in a warm jacket,  staring up at the sky.  The summer sun is bright and my eyes have always been sensitive to such.  Most months of the year my ken is the ground beneath my feet and little more.  The winter is different.  I can lift my head and enjoy the sky.  The cold cracks my skin, burns at times.  It envelopes me and pierces me with its icicles, but I can take an aesthetic pleasure from the sensation that the summer’s heat does not give me.  It is a good season.

I’m afraid I’ve forgotten how to read and write.  I ought to work on this.  I am going to leave this be and wander off into the rest of my early Saturday morning.  It seems like a good night to wander around Jackson.  There is little sense to this, I’m afraid, and less purpose.  Mere atoms falling upon the brain.  I depart…and dwindle.


  1. #1 by pilgrimvisions on November 21, 2010 - 11:26 pm


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: