“You can acknowledge it now, or you can acknowledge it later, but it’s there. It’s not going away”
Blank eyes stare from the inside out. Suffused in dark humor; a hint of impenetrable, deep distance. Nary a fragile spark of life shines forth.
And on the outside? Explosions, endless explosions. Incessant chatter, constant noise, screaming, screaming, screaming. See him here, see him there, a little life that’s moving, moving. Too short, too long, too fast, too slow, being, being? Hardly. Repeat, repeat, repeat, in the whirl of this darkening storm.
The best definitions describe frequency, intensity, duration — and patterns. But why don’t we start and I’ll let you judge.
My inner clock tells me it’s the middle of the night. It’s pitch-black outside. I turn to take in my son’s shadowed form and a squint of the glowing clock that tells me it’s 2 a.m. Shouts and screams and crying, “Hush” and “Shh…” and “Please!” The eruptions finally settle, and I head back to bed, all too cognizant that we’ll be seeing that luminescent, incendiary “2:00” every night this week.
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