Horas Mortas

In the dark, small hours, I listen.

It is quiet and peaceful. And sad, somehow.

I feel every little beautiful thing fill me up and drain me out, leaving me alone.

So utterly alone…But it also makes me happy in a way.

It’s like the world is still, though I know it’s still moving.

I know right now there are millions of people living their lives.

But I am here, in the midst of the dark, surrounded by no one.

This stillness is poetic in itself. There is something magical about it, something awefully precious.

It feels like the world is even bigger…Not exactly scary, but particularly intimidating.

It feels like I’m not even real. I lay here and I listen to this saxophone…

But I’m not really there. I’m somewhere else, someone else.

In this moment, I see the lives I haven’t lived. The lives I could not have.

I feel like I ought to wake up soon – this can’t go on indefinitely.

It’s like a dream that keeps happening. It keeps happening to me. And it won’t go away.

Does it feel right? I don’t know anymore. But it feels…foreign. It feels surreal sometimes.

Other times, it’s like I came back. And it’s me again. I’m me, again.

Everything is familiar, everything shifted back to the way it was.

I recognize the surroundings. I called it home, once.

In these dark, small, so incredibly patient hours, I listen.

I listen, and I wonder.