It is 12:11 AM. I have to be out of here by 8:15. I do hope sleep saves me from a long and lonely night. Nights like these snack on my soul, and take me to the dark depths of stomach acid. I remember nights right after Jose died, when I would sit in the window, frosted with cold, a candle lit, with the hopes he would find his way through the darkness. Night after lonely, lonely, heartbroken night I would sit, buring candle after candle - I should have bought stock in the candle factory. I remember when Kerryl died, sitting, watching for her to come, lonely, a heart so empty, even the roaches moved out. I remember a lifetime of nights, scared of hearing footsteps which might come in my direction, hiding in closets, under beds, under blankets, eyes wide as saucers, as if it would help my hearing, terrified of sleeping, for fear...and, in fear. Long, lonely nights, nothing new for me, no stranger, once foe, now accepted friend. I no longer fear the night or look for a love lost, but there is a loneliness time can not erase. It is the time when my mind and I come too close for comfort. I always wonder what still lies there - it is usually memories I can forget during the day, when busyness buys space from roaming past realities which still still haunt my sleepless nights.

The coming time is going to carry truckloads of stress for me, as well as memory lanes I would rather forget. Holidays always take a toll on my spirit. For me, holidays are full of memory lanes of pot-holes, the kinds which leave permanent scars the brain will forever stumble over. I've tried avenues of detours, but seems they always end up going in circles. I have a few new roads I will be taking soon, but they are pre-loaded with pot-hole memories, even a tune-up may not be able to keep smooth the travels. I've tried the positive thinking route, and let me tell you...usually just sets up for greater frost heaves promising deeper holes.

Time, time, time - seems I just age more and less gracefully - like giving an old car a new paint job - still just an old car underneath. Why is it cars get more valueable with age, and people just get older - there is definitely something wrong with this picture. I love the stories the elderly have, and to me, the older, the more treasured their stories. I see love which has matured into richer understandings, even when relating to love lost. Wrinkles become treasure maps of life, and white hair the snow angels of winter-crystals of which awe erupts. But for some reason, I can not find that in myself as time moves through me. Instead, I still see the ghosts that seem determined to follow me to the grave in my white hair and in my wrinkles I feel the weight of my fatigue. But every now and then, in the depth of my eyes, I see the glitter of an upturned smile that refuses to lay down and play dead.