Another charter haul over lonely asphalt, draped in the cloak of night air sporadically punctured by glowing streetlights and the droning, subdued presence of passing, overtaken, or oncoming fellows in transit. The witching hour has always held my attention lingering about its solemn openness and emptyness; bewitching not by its haunting, spectral semblance, but rather for the total lack thereof. Loneliness plays its own symphony, carefully constructed overtones resonating frequencies which drive most to loathing and agony. Like dogs to an eponymous whistle, they're driven mad by a tone seemingly undistinguishable from the banal accompaniment of life's everyday soundtrack. To be alone is a tough thing for a lot of people; alone in a room, alone in life, alone in their own minds. For me lonesomeness is a room sparsely appointed, save the trinkets you bring with you, and a large, clear mirror on the wall opposite wherever you happen to be standing. Take a seat, get comfy, and take a deep look inside; what you hate, you'll see, and have no illusions as to how exactly it got there. Skin and muscle tissue flex, bulge, and shy away in the stark, cold light one casts upon himself; strengths and weaknesses make shadows and silhouettes unmistakeable in the mirror's unyielding contrast.
Nights like these give one pause to consider the reality of the essential nature of their situation. Their zen-like qualities strip back the leaves in the thicket of the mind, peel that proverbial onion, and let you at its stinking, honest core. Some folks don't care for the scent; it may bite and seem harsh, but the odor is our own. Some folks don't care for their own brand; I say get a good whiff, everyone else has got to smell it on a regular basis, might as well do a little sniff-test to see if you don't care for it so much yourself. Somewhere someone's scattering rose petals, while someone else is chopping onions, and smiling.
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