A Distant Morning

Sometimes it seems as though the day will never begin. The night holds on, clutching its blankets close to itself, covering up the sky and not letting the dawn take hold of the horizon and drag the day up from where it waits, ready to begin.

You wait for the day, not with expectation or dread, just wishing the night was over, and that time can begin again. The clock waits for an eternity between each second, letting whole ages pass before bestowing another minute upon you. Hours take too long to measure. Yesterday was more than a lifetime ago.

There were times, which seem such a long time ago now, when the night held promises for you, when – indeed – midnight could have been the magical witching hour. A time when you danced through the darkness and strode down those dangerous streets safe in the knowledge that you were young and immortal and the night belonged to you, full of meetings and the possibility of someone’s warm flesh against yours as you ignored the irrelevant dawn.

Now, though, those times are long ago, sometimes even to far for memory to reach, they seem no more substantial than the strange dream that dragged you out of sleep and left you here on the shore of morning waiting for the tide of daybreak to wash you into motion.