Starless nights can make the smallest of sounds seem sinister. There isn’t much we can do when Time isn’t moving forward; when it can’t be found even when we delve into the depths of our own darkness to see if we might have possibly misplaced it there. Inside ourselves, the only place that remains without stars is our shadow, soundlessly floating everywhere we go. Poor old Hope doesn’t know that it casts the shadow of Despair from its own self when it’s looking everywhere for Light. I had tried peeling off my own shadow so many times, until I understood that it is cast only because there must be Light somewhere.
Time can be vicious, playing the same hour over and over again till you end up at the far end of September thinking, how have I managed to come here? And at the horizon of October, shadows play at the edges, I can see them. Starless nights stretch far out to blanket me, as cozy as the comfort inside mediocrity. As warm as the stove kept on for years together, cooking nothing. As overcast as the shadows that have kept poor old Hope company through the years.
If you find Time, that Troublemaker, tell him I’m looking for him. He owes me an explanation.