It's cold

He sat on the edge of the bed, silent and still. The room was dark except for the scant bit of moonlight that shone through the small dirty window. All he could hear was the sound of his own calm breathing. Once again, it was the middle of the night, and he could not sleep.

His eyes moved about the small studio apartment room, surveying the surreal moon-lit scene before him. It’s strange how different things look at night. How a person can look like someone completely different lying next to you in bed at 3am than they did at dinner hours before, or outside in the sunlight that afternoon. So looked the room to him now. It was an alien landscape, filled with craters of clothes he’s too lazy or too busy to hang up or put away or throw in the hamper, and dirty plastic dishes and empty silver beer cans.

The window next to the bed was open, and the cold, clean winter air flowed into the room and onto his naked skin. The chill of time, catching up to you, as it does to all things that live. It was an uncomfortable cold, too cold, and yet he sat there unmoving, unflinching, in the middle of the night. Thinking.

He lived alone. He had never been married, didn’t have any children. He didn’t have a girlfriend, or a fling, or an interest. He was alone and he liked it that way. Alone with his memories and dreams, and thoughts and empty beer cans.

He was thinking of her again. He felt the weight of life bearing down upon his heavy heart. He drew in a deep melancholy breath, and exhaled. He was wide awake at 3am in his very small apartment, wishing he was somewhere else, with somebody else, in another time, another life.

His eyes moved over to the neon blue glow of the digital alarm clock. 3:01 it read. He had to get up in three hours. He knew he needed more sleep. But he knew very well he wouldn’t be slumbering any more this night. He’s been here before. Many times in his life he’s been here before. Unable to sleep, this thoughts consuming him, unable to turn his brain off. With another sigh he stood up, knees and ankle joints cracking and creaking. He cursed and began his day.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could.
To where it bent in the undergrowth,

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

The Road Not Taken – Robert Frost

311 Rocks!

No I’ll not renounce my views do what others do
I’d rather drink the hemlock than be like you, to my soul untrue
It never gets easier so quit tryin pleasing her
Everything is a choice so let me hear your voice

311 – Still Dreaming