He awoke in the dark. The faint glow of the clock radio at his bedside was all that could be seen, and its low hum buzzed in his ears, a constant drone of power that would allow him no more rest. Straining his shoulder, he reached over the edge of the bed, grabbed the clock radio's power cord, and yanked hard, freeing its plug from the wall socket and sinking the room into complete silence and darkness, yet no matter how long he lay, patiently waiting, he could not return to sleep. Something felt off, somehow wrong.
There was a feeling of disappointment creeping coldly down his back--an embedded fear to which he refused to succumb. Weeks ago, he was unable to write. The words had been hidden away, always just out of his grasp, but now--now that he'd found them again, the intensity and the passion that accompanied them like old friends--the dreams that had taken their place were gone, like a spring dried up in the heat of summer. He was more lost than before, unwilling to trade meaning for meaning. He wanted both.
Since his dreams did not come for him, he decided to chase them, instead. With a satisfied click, the lamp at his bedside was switched on, and a ball of pale light shined against the walls, giving depth to the room if not detail. He searched through his closet, fishing a decade-old pair of sneakers with a loose rubber heel from just beneath the surface. They were walking shoes (or running shoes--he couldn't quite remember how the salesman had put it so long ago), and they were extremely comfortable. The best part about intentional night walks, Oscar thought to himself as he pried his feet into the shoes, was that treading barefoot across loose rocks and pebbles was completely optional.
The world outside was still steeped in early-morning darkness, and he struggled in vain to recall the glowing digits that had been burning beside his bed before he so abruptly pulled the plug. The air was crisp, and the first birds of the morning already stirred in the boughs surrounding him, waiting with impatient squawks for the rest of the world to awaken, and to Oscar, it felt distinctly like three o' clock.
As he climbed the hills, he could see the sleeping town below, disturbed only by several sets of distant headlights roaming the empty streets. College kids, he assumed, heading back to their dormitories and apartments after a full night, or simply those who were doomed to work night shifts. Either way, to the old man on the hill, they were only fireflies, flitting through the valley below.
When he reached the cemetery, he found that there was something especially discomfiting about the place in the dark. He'd never experienced it before, having only awoken here in the mornings no earlier than the moments just before dawn, when there was at least the promise of sunlight to fill the world with a preemptive, hopeful golden glow. Now there was just an uneasy, lingering stillness. In the moonlight, he maneuvered around the scattered graves until he found the one that he knew so well, the one that he would know even if he were blindfolded.
"Hello, darling. I wish I knew what I was doing here. Compensating for something, I suppose. I'd been dreaming, you know. At least, I think they were dreams. I can't exactly remember them, but I don't know what else they could be. They've stopped now. It feels like I should apologize to you, but for what, I don't know."
He paused for a moment, head bowed in silence at her grave side, and then shuffled away, through the mass of earth and stone, the names on which were lost to the obscurity of the pre-dawn hours.
There was a feeling of disappointment creeping coldly down his back--an embedded fear to which he refused to succumb. Weeks ago, he was unable to write. The words had been hidden away, always just out of his grasp, but now--now that he'd found them again, the intensity and the passion that accompanied them like old friends--the dreams that had taken their place were gone, like a spring dried up in the heat of summer. He was more lost than before, unwilling to trade meaning for meaning. He wanted both.
Since his dreams did not come for him, he decided to chase them, instead. With a satisfied click, the lamp at his bedside was switched on, and a ball of pale light shined against the walls, giving depth to the room if not detail. He searched through his closet, fishing a decade-old pair of sneakers with a loose rubber heel from just beneath the surface. They were walking shoes (or running shoes--he couldn't quite remember how the salesman had put it so long ago), and they were extremely comfortable. The best part about intentional night walks, Oscar thought to himself as he pried his feet into the shoes, was that treading barefoot across loose rocks and pebbles was completely optional.
The world outside was still steeped in early-morning darkness, and he struggled in vain to recall the glowing digits that had been burning beside his bed before he so abruptly pulled the plug. The air was crisp, and the first birds of the morning already stirred in the boughs surrounding him, waiting with impatient squawks for the rest of the world to awaken, and to Oscar, it felt distinctly like three o' clock.
As he climbed the hills, he could see the sleeping town below, disturbed only by several sets of distant headlights roaming the empty streets. College kids, he assumed, heading back to their dormitories and apartments after a full night, or simply those who were doomed to work night shifts. Either way, to the old man on the hill, they were only fireflies, flitting through the valley below.
When he reached the cemetery, he found that there was something especially discomfiting about the place in the dark. He'd never experienced it before, having only awoken here in the mornings no earlier than the moments just before dawn, when there was at least the promise of sunlight to fill the world with a preemptive, hopeful golden glow. Now there was just an uneasy, lingering stillness. In the moonlight, he maneuvered around the scattered graves until he found the one that he knew so well, the one that he would know even if he were blindfolded.
"Hello, darling. I wish I knew what I was doing here. Compensating for something, I suppose. I'd been dreaming, you know. At least, I think they were dreams. I can't exactly remember them, but I don't know what else they could be. They've stopped now. It feels like I should apologize to you, but for what, I don't know."
He paused for a moment, head bowed in silence at her grave side, and then shuffled away, through the mass of earth and stone, the names on which were lost to the obscurity of the pre-dawn hours.
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