Dark Night of the Soul

Our souls are different at night, stranger, hungrier and full of longing. For me, that is how it is and has always been. The ancient phrase, coined long ago, and it’s historically, mostly singular, references mystify me.

Who would I be, if like most, there were only a few soul stirring, turbulent thoughts and often sleepless nights, that gave way to the new dawn, (God only knows). That’s never been my story, it’s not in my DNA.

When I’ve felt safe and loved, like a flower in a walled garden, I thrive. Under the constellations and luminous moon, I dream and imagine my future with creative wildness. I soar above, as if painted by Chagall, shining, fearless, and limitless, I rise.

But, for me, inevitably, what follows is, the fall. My fall from grace, over and over, again. Like, the new moon, the darkest nights, I search the sky for my beloved stars. I look within, knowing that what once burned so bright, is now barely flickering. These nights, reluctantly, at first, I look back.

I read once, “Everything that I’ve let go of has claw marks on it” and felt that to my core. The ocean of my past, swells up in waves, and washes up the shallow graves of the most destructive memories. I’ll bury them, again, at the break of dawn. Ruminating on then, wasting now, when will be enough?

Day by day. Night by night. I rise and fall with the ocean tides.