Night

I sat at the crossroad, writing by the light of the waxing full moon. The night was peaceful. I heard the crickets in the grass singing their song. The coyotes joined in with their own rhythm-less melody from somewhere in the distance beyond the trees and hills.

The wind whispered through the trees playing the gentle percussion for the Song of the Night.

The night air wafted on by the delicate breeze brought with it the sweet scent of the night time forest, the rich earthen smell of dead wood and leaves, and the last faintest trace of the flowers from the day; their scent of now forgotten beauty barely lingering on the breath of the night.

The pale moon on my skin glowed with a chill light that filtered down to the warm blood coursing through my veins, chilling it, making me one with the night.

Chains

At one point I fancied my heart wrapped in chains and protected by the logical workings of my mind. I have seen others ruined by a free heart that took them away from their previous designed course, and promised myself that such an affliction would not also be my downfall.

Many times I have thought theses chains to have tightened and their strength to have held my heart back from folly, but I discover now that the chains are not strong. My heart was then weak and already resigned to failure. It only longed for something that it knew it could not have, so it did not fight; it only pressed against the chains in protest.

Why must I be so contradictory as to want my chains to hold back my dreams? I had hoped that by finding distractions to divert my dreams I could avoid that ache and strain of having to bind them. My diversions have only caused more damage. They have given my heart a taste of what it wants, and now it is not content to remain there.

I fear that this gives it strength, and I fear what wild flights it will take when those feeble chains break.