Frozen by the shining sun, my mind is set alight by her long breaths. Liquidity. My transformation is complete as full dark slips over the world. I stare at her face, so peaceful in its repose. The ache of my love is so strong now that I fear it will wake her. My mind races across our life together, finding pain. I immerse myself in it so that it can’t defile her.
I am the night watchman.
I guard the innocent light of the day, battling darkness so that the sleeper can rest without worry. Silently waiting for the next wave of foes, I direct my gaze to the window and wait for the birds to sing.
“Why do people have to be this lonely? What’s the point of it all? Millions of people in this world, all of them yearning, looking to others to satisfy them, yet isolating themselves. Why? Was the Earth put here just to nourish human loneliness?
I turned face-up on the slab of stone, gazed at the sky, and thought about all of the man-made satellites spinning around the Earth. The horizon was still etched in a faint glow, and stars began to blink on in the deep, wine-coloured sky. I gazed among them for the light of a satellite, but it was still too bright out to spot one with the naked eye. The sprinkling of stars looked nailed to the spot, unmoving. I closed my eyes and listened carefully for the descendants of Sputnik, even now circling the Earth, gravity their only tie to the planet. Lonely metal souls in the unimpeded darkness of space, they meet, pass each other, and part, never to meet again. No words passing between them. No promises to keep.” (Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami, translated by Philip Gabriel)
I live in phases. Up and down I go, from periods of great productivity, joy and vigor to periods of something else altogether. Like Murakami’s strange Sumire who was so cherished by the story’s narrator, I too use writing as a means to think. Just as she did, I go through low phases which find me unable (or more likely unwilling) to think and therefore I avoid the act of writing. I recede from the internet, from books and from anything which may challenge me to think only to come crashing back later, like the returning tide. I don’t know how to prevent these cycles other than to force myself to continue to read, write and engage with my thoughts. I don’t even know if that will work, because my dark days come in force and unexpectedly, gripping me with an unwillingness to engage with the world. I prefer instead to dull my mind and dwell in nothingness until drawn out. Perhaps I need to make a stand or a decision, like in the book. I have love and companionship, but maybe I need a narrator of my own to draw me back from the twin world.
I’m back, for now.