Nights For Naught

If there is a heaviness to mornings, then the night has a sense of lightness.
As everything is, the perceptions we place change everything. It can be argued that the lightness is not a relaxing one but an empty one. It's the lightness of a lack of something. Of life being dragged onwards even when it should have been clocking in for the day. It has outlasted its prime. The helium has picked everything up except your own consciousness and now you are left to study it, to ask questions, to answer unenthusiastically.
Oh mysterious human being, just grow up. Change the tone of who you are. Or change who you are. Or stop thinking that anything you write accurately represents you.
If it is written is it true? Asked the sexual Einstein. Or the irresistable Buddha.
I'm really just looking at you. I don't understsand you. I never will, of course, but I can't help but try.
Who are you? Well, that's not for me to say. It's for you to know, but not to be told. It is the ambiguous you, the specific you, the you that is reading each word and looking for yourself in them. I cannot promise that. And if I could, looking back, I would not want you to be the cause of a lot of it.
I'm writing here because I'm not writing fiction. Unless this is fiction. Everything is a story, a creation. I'm not writing fiction because I'm not. Who needs to create reasons when there is the simple fact of the non-event? Not this writer. Nossiree bob.

Now, my apologies for the mess.
It will be cleaned up.
Go ahead and ignore the spill.
Hollow bells are ringing.
To the music of the mind, I depart.