Shower Epiphany- The Solitude of a World yet Sleeping

There is a sadness in being up so early. I've been here many times, many moments and many lives. I've awoken to darkness only to stare out into a rising sun and almost questioning its work ethic, demand reason why it took so long to catch up. It's a stark difference to waking late. The world seems to have left you behind in its pace as you attempt to comprehend what had passed in your slumber and what time you have left to interact with the World.

I've existed in both in many places in my timeline. I've walked the streets in the dead of night and the dead of morning. Many can not tell the difference, but I can all too well. The dead of morning has a Xmas day sort of vibe when in the right neighborhood you too can relive your Twilight Zone fantasies of running down vacant streets screaming "WHERE IS EVERYONE?!?!" Or at least until someone opens a window and imagines that you are trying to relive that one scene in any variant of the Scrooge tale, fat goose included. In the dead of night there is a feeling that the world has ended, but more in an apocalyptic sense where the only humans you'd encounter are almost zombie or do not recognize you as kind. It's almost when you're driving through a destination at night and you stop in the middle of nowhere in many places in this nation, and if you're lucky they won't lynch you for your creamy coffee latte skin, where even if you do interact with humanity, or for what passes for it, it usually treats you as alien as much as you treat it.

And yet, I've spent these mornings, even now as I do not have any particular place to go outside of making hard phone calls and attempting to pull myself out of my past once more in hopes for a future, where as different as it all is there are similar factors that I can find comfort in. I'm usually in the darkest room in silence so loud that it seems to suffocate the outside world. If lucky a bird attempts to disrupt such an oppressive quiet in order to pull life back into the world, even if it's to have it ignore it for its song. I'm holding a mug of sorts, they change with time and place, but a mug all the certain. Even now I as I sip bitter black coffee when I could have sweet and delicate. My face is greeted by a cold morning, not midwest cold, but cold just the same before the radiance of sunlight touches and wakes all with heat and promise. I am alone with my thoughts. Some I continue to have, others I fear I may never contemplate and some I only hope never to entertain again. I stare out into the cold day as it shines off into a distance until the heat touches me once more and I mutter my accusations to the gas giant as if demonstrating some arrogant superiority.

And yes, there was a time when I took it seriously.

With as many similarities of each moment, there are different scenes, places, and times. There was a time where a blue-haired vision would walk over to me and wrap a warm arm calling me to bed, just a bit longer. Others I'm having a French breakfast of bitter coffee once again, this time joined by a cig and a croissant. In another life, I wore fatigues and strapped on my medic bag, knowing that I need supplies, but coffee was best now and I can lose myself in it. Another I walk the dead streets with confusion, loss, and bitter brew in hand trying how once again rebuild my existence. One I'm running through paces and maneuvers for the horrors to come and others I'm simply emerging from an empty bed in solitude and savoring a melancholy existence that most would find heartbreaking and I comfort.

I've lived many lives and had been many people. And yet, they are all me. If I did not live the worst moments I could not become the kind, loving, fatherly person you love me as today. The scars on my person and persona made me what I am. There was a time when I could not comprehend this and my death by my hand was my only solution to a mind muddled with attempting to make sense of horror past. It almost killed me, yet it only made me pensive, sweet, kind, and almost sensually and delicately precise. It has given me mastery of pain and the ability to soothe those who needs comfort. The only benefit I can gather from living through hell is that I can now be for others the person I needed most when I cried out into a cold night for someone, anyone who'd come for me. Now I comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.

So I await the rising of the Sun. I await for those of you to pull yourself from slumber, never knowing I stand on the Imaginary wall between you and what ails you. I wait for the world to rub the sleep out its eyes and begin so that I may enter it once more and be part of it. I try to pass enough as human before I leave it once more, usually at an hour most are raging against their sleep and fatigue and I lay myself to be still and silent once more. I leave you nightly to your interactions with each other to wake once more in dark solitude and a cold morning where my early companion is the rising Sun.

Some days I wonder if I can pass on one day without my story being told. Others I think its best for it to join me in the grave. Mystery often times allows you a greater legend. At this point, that's all that I am: Legend. People would not like to know who I am as I seek quiet corners and silent passings of time. I put on a show when able and seek isolation when needed. I do not know my end nor would I ask to. I simply marvel much like today that I could probably rival Bowie with reinventions of self. Funny thing is, I never thought of myself as worth much.

Not saying I'm wrong now, yet.....yet......*sighs and nods, takes sip from bitter coffee*.....I can say I walk with greats and radiate magnificence even if I only reflect it from others much greater than I will ever be, much as the Moon reflect the Sun's light.

I'm not special in any way.

Yet....*smiles and sighs* ,,,,,,I can't believe that I'm here, what I do, and how I helped make things better, even when everything looks dismal and lost.

Peace and Love

Be good to each other.