Undeserving

Three am. My hour of solitude, peace, and quiet madness. The light sputters as I walk underneath, dies out and winks back to life when I'm a few meters away. Far off the distance the sound of a lone car melts into darkness. Someone lost in the hour of the witch.

That's right. The hour of the witch is not midnight. It's three am when the world is darkest, when the streets are empty of human consciousness. Because all the creatures that walk the earth at this hour are either inhuman...or drunk, high or stupid. This is the time when magic is free of the mundane bullshit of what you call a society, when imagination is free from your perception of order, right or wrong, good or bad. Dreams and nightmares are released from their cells inside your brains, desires and aspirations shine bright. The ones that stay awake (and not intoxicated) are the ones who can see them. We talk to them, we listen to what they have to say...and we set them free into the waking world. We pair them up or split them apart, tear them to pieces or sew them together, organize and catalog... and then we lay them out.

In words, and music, and painting and stone we shape the world that ought to be, the world that lives in you. We give voice to the wonder around you which you fail to see.

The pavement is cold beneath my feet. During the day I'd get odd stares. Now I see smiles and other barefooted people. No, not people. Creatures. Creatures of darkness and light alike, holding hands. Unlike what you believe they don't fight amongst each other. Demons marry angels, fairies dance with goblins. They're only evil in your world, because you make them to be. You wish them to be so you wouldn't have to look inside and see that all that ugliness and hate and horror - they are all of your design. They are all yours.

And then there's the ones that walk the witches hour. The ones that don't belong on either side but observe both. The ones that give humanity stories of wonders and horror in the hopes that mankind would one day learn of its mistakes and shortcomings and make amends. The poor lost fools that you laugh at because they dared to dream with their eyes open. The artists, the 'mad'.

And then there's me. I walk the cold streets seen by all but reached by none. And I tell you this - go back to sleep. Close your eyes and forget that little. Your artists have failed. You don't deserve the world of wonder. The gates to Heaven have been closed. This Earth you live in is all you've got and you've turned it into hell. Enjoy it. Forever!