MORNING IS MURDER

Morning is dangerous; sharp; lethal.

The day and night preceding: murdered; cut to shreds.

Minutes past midnight; the bright edge of Tuesday morning emerging from the sheath of monumental Monday. Days and nights carry the seeds of their own destruction. The more memorable the day, the more potent the destructive seeds.

Morning is suicide.

Morning is a sadist.

Morning is MAD; nuclear holocaust; Mutually Assured Destruction.

Blood stains the length and breadth of the morning blade.  Sadness, anxiety, and loss cling to its aura like ghosts of the forgotten. There is mourning in the morning.  A night well-lived >> gone. A night much loved >> obliterated. All things pass from this world.  

Nothing remains.

Nobody remains.

This night did not pass. It did not dissipate. It was ripped from this world, brutally hacked limb from limb, forever banished to the ether by the cold deadly steel of the cruelest of mornings; a Tuesday no less. Rare is the memorable Monday. Rare is the terrible Tuesday.

No mundane Monday, that. No tolerant Tuesday, this.

No traffic.

Clear streets. Perfect for mourning. Perfect morning.

I drive onward without hurry >>>>>>> unusual experience.

I leave an empty space in front of the venue turned funeral home. I am the first of the bereaved to depart the dearly departed. Perhaps some still celebrate the night, unaware the sword is already drawn, the sheath quartered. I cannot fathom why they remain. We few… Brothers.. Another Saint… His Day… A speech. I drive past the cars with heavy heart. The car groans beneath the weight. I groan beneath the weight of silence.

Sitting.

Driving.

Crawling.

I crawl north on St. Mary’s toward US Highway 281, past several bars, restaurants, collectible stores, and, I think, an art gallery or two. Maybe I am hallucinating again, the sadness exacerbating my other conditions, warping my cognition. Things seem too good to be true.

I am exhausted. Past midnight is well past my bedtime. I should be home in my dreams of a world of endless raisin farms and Natalie Portman in my shower.  I think 9pm is late. I get up most mornings at 4 sharp. It gives me time to putz around, scribble some stuff on paper, do yoga, meditate, and other stuff that thrives in the quiet of dawn.

Silence.