(three AM musings)

There's something about the music that wells up in her throat, causing her to choke on emotion. It causes the words to burst on the tip of her tongue and revolve around her brain, but for all she tries to expel them, they stay inside. Meaningless thoughts and epiphanies. She feels as if the world is hers, and she is alone in that ownership. There is nobody dwelling in silence. At three in the morning with a closed door and open windows, she can only hear the people sleeping in their beds or sleeping on the streets, and only see the flickering of a lonely streetlamp. It seems to mean something: all the words in the motionless world are screaming. They commemorate everyone who will live and everyone who has died, and all who remain in between. They're lonely words, wistful words. Words that can't be written on paper or spoken in other tongues.

Everyone knows the words.

Everyone knows the emotion, too, that currently creates a relentless bubble in the base of her throat and tends to cause laughter and tears. She dangles her feet off the edge of a barren bed and does both. Maybe somewhere she's lonely and wants comfort; maybe somewhere she's surrounded and isn't lonely at all. But she's surrounded now- in loneliness- she loves it. Loves it. There isn't a word in the dictionary for the indescribable emotion of everything. Every thought, every memory, every sound and smell and touch resonates in the darkness, accompanied by the beat of the music, blaring into the depths and crevices of her ears. Really, it's a triumph. Not happiness- she doesn't know what happiness is anymore, or how it compares to joy. Not sadness, either, because even in the cacophony of broken hearts and guilt and loss, she is still okay. She has everything she started out with and everything she'll end with, and that is freedom. Unattached. Dislocated. Twisted out of place and still containing everything she'll ever need.

The darkness has everything because it contains so many words. Music supplies some, but silence holds just as much. The endless chatter of humanity has no impact on the universe, nor does it provide any answers, only filling the blanks for people whose minds are lacking. Connections are formed through knowledge, but you can learn so much through time and touch and understanding the essence of things. Really, there's nothing in the darkness to be afraid of. Unless you're afraid of not understanding, the darkness should be a comfort, for although people fear darkness because of the unknown, the darkness has all the real answers. The unknown is what gives us reason to know. Not that we'll ever understand.

She thinks she understands now- the fact that she'll never understand. She thinks that wisdom is the same way, with every wise man having the sense to call himself unwise, and every foolish one believing he has all the answers. Who needs answers? Freedom is good enough, isn't it? Freedom isn't love or happiness or affection, but it isn't corruption either. Freedom is darkness and the willingness to embrace darkness because whatever is in it doesn't have the ability to change us. And darkness isn't a bad thing; every person who says darkness is bad doesn't understand the essence of humanity.

If the darkness were bad then we'd all be evil.

The poetry of music tells her of the universe's evil, and gives her the sense that the entire world is large. Indescribably large. If her mind is vast enough to acknowledge that darkness is words, so many words, then surely there are other people who think things like this- other people who think in even more depth. These people's thoughts combined with the unintelligent people's thoughts and the intelligent-but-dull people's thoughts ends up with a complex array of words. Trillions. More than trillions. The words are infinite, as are the emotions, and to think that humanity is only one species. To think that the Earth holds an infinite amount of physical and mental concepts and ideas and objects and thoughts and andandand it's incredible. It's incredible that people ever feel alone.

However, she recognizes that the loneliness is a privilege in all the vastness; the darkness is a relief. The essence of nobody is something- everything. What would the world be if she were another, and what would the world be if she weren't anything, and what would the world be if everybody were nothing? Nothing. Darkness. Isn't darkness supposed to be a good thing?

See, you have to have the people to create the music, and you have to have the people to offset the loneliness because you don't know loneliness unless you've had a taste of someone. People are what make the world so incredible. If humans didn't exist, the world would just be a thoughtless void of scientific mechanics and predator vs. prey and sunlight streaming through transparent clouds. Some argue that an earth without humans is good, that it would be better if we weren't here to destroy natural resources and implement technology and disturb other animal's habitats. But do they take into consideration our thought processes and human advancement? The brain structure? How useless it all is- no other animal appreciates it- but really, how incredible. How amazing. Humans are definitely something.

There's that emotion again. The triumph. She thinks about it, the atoms creating the universe, the decibel levels of mindless screaming, the blood that would rush through the streets without skin and the streets that wouldn't be there at all without people. We discover something every day about ourselves and about the universe, whether consciously or subconsciously. We are always cataloging and analyzing and inferencing and appreciating. Reveling. Humanity has every reason to feel triumph over their accomplishments, and every reason to try to create more. Be something. (Truth is, we'll never be appreciated in the long run. No one will know her in three centuries. She's technically a nobody. But the world consists of nobodies all trying to uselessly be somebody to someone. And eventually when humans go extinct, when some higher race finds our fossils and catalogues and analyses and inferences and appreciates, we'll still be nobodies.)

She has no reason to feel emotion in the darkness if she is a nobody, but for some reason, she does. She doesn't feel like a nobody because brains are egotistical things that triumph over their thought processes. She doesn't feel like a nobody because she is a somebody to someone, somewhere far away, living across the void of darkness that contains all the words she wants to say.

There's guilt in feeling devoid of people- needless- free. To some extent she should love the people in her universe for all the things they've done in the daytime. But she doesn't know what love is, not really. She's tried. She says it, over and over again to all the people, to the somebodies and the someones, but she doesn't know it. It's one of the things she cannot understand, because she's free and her thoughts aren't capable yet. Maybe one day. One day.

Or never.

It's not a horrible thing. Nobody is capable of loving someone completely, because get to a certain point and you're too far overboard, and you don't love yourself anymore. People should love themselves. It's an affliction that plagues everyone: lack of self-love. And sure, we love our friends and our relatives and our pets and the somebodies (nobodies), but we don't love them completely because that isn't loving ourselves. And even if we don't love ourselves- completely, utterly- we must love ourselves at least a minuscule amount. There has to be something that keeps us in the realm of the living. Lack of self-preservation would end up in several billion dead humans and a bad case of extinction.

She loves herself, yes. It would be considerable hamartia if she were to love herself too much. Darkness can do that to a person if it's twisted into a certain light.

Likewise, darkness has the capability to destroy everything: all logic, light, love, and hope. It's because of the words, see. Read a page of a book and depending on the page, there's always a connotation. Read a page of the darkness and it's the same way. There's a mental connection, as well as an emotional one.

Another surge of emotion. She is crying now, and laughing, all at once. It's too much. The music, and the stupefied silence of the rest of the universe. Her toes twitch, her hands are restless. Springing at once from the bed, she walks over to a window, where there's wind coming from the openness. Maybe one day the wind will carry her away. She's certainly buoyant enough.

There's a streetlamp outside, glowing against the silhouette of a tree. Snow settling. Her tears freeze to her cheeks, but she doesn't desire warmth, for the darkness' coldness is enough to satisfy. If she cannot truly love, she cannot be truly loved by anyone but herself. Independence. Aloneness. It's lovely to be completely, utterly unattached. These thoughts of hers can race to extreme lengths in the interrupted silence, and nobody minds; nobody is awake to hear the thoughts, or see them or touch them or taste them. She can snatch all the darkness's words and give them to her brain, because nobody cares. Nobody is anybody in the long run. All the nobodies have used this available dictionary of words, and all the nobodies have passed on, leaving the words worn and weary.

She loves the words because to her they are a novelty. Exciting. Lonely, different. She loves them more than she loves herself. More than she loves the universe. And she hates them, too, for they never end up truly describing the emotions whirring around her wired mind. Cataloging, analyzing, inferencing, appreciating. Defining. There isn't a definition for anything she wants to say. Similar to a great, heavily enforced wall, the words reach a blockade that they cannot afford to chip away at. They stop at her tongue, and she tries to say them, but cannot. It's her tongue's fault. She wants to cut out the organ and discard it with the words in the wind.

Besides, there's nobody to say the words to anyway. Even if there were, the words would be long forgotten in less than a decade. Nothing ever lasts unless compiled into something inanimate. (Inanimate objects never last, either, so there's not much use in trying.)

It seems as if everything fades eventually. Changes. She never liked change, preferring consistency, but freedom doesn't allow for that. Instead, she had to change herself. Not such a shocker. Everyone changes, anyway. People, beliefs, ideas, emotions, concepts, the universe. The change is repetitive and dull and to be expected at this point in history. People are getting to be dull. Words are overused, ideas are worn out; there's no use in brilliance anymore.

She thinks the universe is incredible and thinks the world of herself, but always wonders if she'll ever be incredible, too. It's doubtful. She's a nobody staring out of an open window in the wintertime. The ground is very far below- and what if she were to just fall? Disappear. End. Die. Pass away. Cease to exist. Bite the dust, kick the bucket. Whatever they're calling it these days.

She's the only one that can (truly) love herself and she doesn't love herself enough to be happy (whatever happiness is). But she loves herself enough to exist. She's trying to stay buoyant. Isn't it funny that in a world full of brilliant, incredible humans, the suicide rate is so high? Why is that, she wonders?

The silence will scream many overused words at a lonely individual, and music is only a temporary cure. There are many temporary cures. People are temporary cures; so is love. In actuality, we're all dying from a terminal disease, and the time keeps running and we keep trying to fight while the words weep tears of mirth. They're laughing at you because you can't find the means to say them.

Well, you know what? Murder those words. Murder them. You don't need them. She doesn't, either. She can keep the words to herself, rip out her tongue and cut off her fingers, and she'll be just as much of a nobody as she would have been otherwise. Words are just substitutes for real thoughts and emotions and feelings. Freedom comes from thinking, emoting, and feeling. Peering into the darkness and making light out of it.

She looks at the street lamp. There's a figure standing underneath: a nobody. She doesn't know what he's doing awake at three in the morning, and neither does he, but in a world of selfish people that prefer sleeping at night there's got to be people with mental jetlag. Maybe it's insomnia. Maybe it's emotion. Maybe it's simply the brain, telling him that loneliness is not incredible.

His presence is beckoning her.

As she turns away from the window, the music ends. The silence is very empty now, the words seeming to have disappeared. She is emotionless. Unfeeling. The triumph has gone somewhere far away, as have the laughter and frozen tears. She feels lonely, for once failing to see the forest for the trees, wondering how to turn a solitary figure in front of a street lamp into something important. In truth, no words are going to help the man become something of worth. They're all lonely people with lovely brains, all ultimately forgotten as the world keeps living and changing. They're all self-preserving, miserable individuals who find happiness and sadness in the darkness. They're all the same.

She's tired of it: being the same. Very tired. Gravitating back to the bed and sitting there, she stares at the dark spot in the corner of the room where her coat lies in a heap. If she goes outside, will her life change? She's learned to love and accept change, but has never deliberately tried to bring change on herself. There's an emotion rising amongst the emptiness. Uncertainty. It might change something, or it could change nothing. It won't end up changing everything, that's for sure.

She's tired of it: trying to make an impact. Trying to be incredible like the rest of the world. Trying to love the rest of the world for being incredible while she isn't. Trying to use the words when she cannot fathom what she's trying to say.

She's tired, and you should be tired too. The coat lies forgotten, and there are tears again, but these are tears of nothingness. It really doesn't matter anymore. (They won't care when she's dead. She's the one who takes care of herself.)

She's tired, and she falls asleep quickly. The figure stands alone beneath the streetlamp. The world is dizzy from its spinning. No music sounds from silent houses. Inside a dark bedroom, there are overused words on a dead tongue, and she dreams of cutting into their flesh and throwing them out into the wind. Can't you see them? They're pretty words. Buoyant, like balloons. They're fading from sight. It really doesn't matter what they said anymore.