Dazed and Confused

What follows is an email I wrote to myself late last night. I wrote it at a time that a man should not have to be awake. Alas, however, I had no choice.


The following comments are only edited for spelling, and nothing else:


Earth cannot produce environment more destitute than 2 AM. Thoughts wander, never fully formed. Words die in the Middle. The middle of what? Is it that those words left unsaid, unwritten and unthought slip somewhere else, into the deep alter-reality alter-universe of sleep? Do memories, questions, fears, ideas fully blossom to potential? Blossom on the other side of the Veil?


Wonder....


The morning after a rainstorm is full of life. Nature picks herself up, come out of hiding, and moves back into the rhythm of life. Earth worms are no exception. The worm runs to the surface in search of air, finds it, only to discover a scant few hours later that a mad dash back underground must take place in order to survive. Sometimes a worm is halfway back in when a boot, or a stick nastily cleave the might worm in two. The half that made it back underground will regenerate and live on.


Are conscience functions like this. Constantly slipping between sleep and wakefulness in search of growing to full length? What thoughts am I harboring that are waiting to recoup in order to contribute once again.


Is sitting up at 2 AM unable to sleep harming those ideas? Do they die, as parts of my brain randomly change from sleep to wake? One one side a boot crushes an idea, only to be crushed from the other side simultaneously as that sector jumps lines?

Shadow

Ella has worked as the Head Maid for nearly 24 years. She had defended the manor from babies, children, weddings, parties, even wars. Never was a mess left in a corner, or a tapestry left unbeaten even for a single day. Through that time she has seen many things change. Some of that change had been ushered in by her. Currently she was sweeping one of the long, meandering hallways. The broom's straw strands making a careful, ordered swish swish on the cool stone floor.



She smiled at the thought of all the hours she had saved by inventing a new way to bind the straw together and to the broom handle. She had soaked leather in a pot overnight (over the fire next to the boiling rabbit stew: another of her innovations she reminded herself to reminisce on later). Then she bound the straw with the soaked leather, and baked each set of brooms in the bread oven. What came out was a broom that would last well beyond four of its string-bound counterparts. A slow smile spread across her face.



Ella saved every copper or silver she could over the years. Except for the occasional dress, and the essential consumables she had saved every possible bit. Next week she would talk to the Lord, and then leave.  She had enough to buy a small estate somewhere, preferably in the trees; she loved the birds' calls. Her mind wandered as she continued to sweep down the corridor.



Swish. Swish. Swish. As she neared a window a chill went up her spine. The ordered cadence did not falter, alter, or change no matter where her mind went. Then, suddenly, it stopped. As Ella had swept past the window, and her shadow fell across the floor, her long, smooth stokes moved across her shadow, until on one identical stroke, her shadow was swept away in a furl of dust and minute bits of straw. Where just a moment past the swish had fully swept through the air, a scream rent it sharp like a knife... A man's laughter, deep and sardonic could be heard coming from just outside the window in the courtyard beyond.