The Joy of Night

The Joy of Night

 

Love is a funny trouble; it never tastes the way it breathes.

 

The taste of honey, milk, affection. All that is loved is death in the ways of the world; the glory of love pulls from the chimings of rest. The black smoke from chimneys rises, the scent of burning wood. I have forgotten the taste of sugar; brine and liquor are all that remain.

 

All that remains is the glory of what once was, now dead in sleet and slumber, anxious in it's way. Death comes often but reigns unchecked, hungrily stalking the shadows, the old and the sick, the youthful and stupid.

 

I light a cigarette to welcome my demise; I praise the remnants of glory that I will leave, even if only in foolish breezes that run from the day. Only in honor shall I live, only in honor shall I die.

 

Those that have passed before me have known everlasting life in the shadows of pewter and gold, but as time rises, the crumble of steel and love grows great, diminshing the blessed artifacts of might.

 

I have loved.

 

To live is love lost, to die is to be found. Love rises in the smoke of buildings, the lonesome couriers of waste and ruin. The beauty that I've held rose quietly from the depths of my heart and fell like a hundred thousand deafening eggshells in the rising of the moon.

 

No one can know sorrow until love destroys them; there is honor in death and glory in destruction; all lives are lost but once, there are many days to live.

 

It should be in the sorrows that we rejoice, not the affected troubles of joy and moonlight. All things quiet and reserved live to revere the shadow: it should be in death, not life that we give our pain.

 

Joy is a bounty of tears and falsehood.

Let us rejoice in the coming of midnight, or do nothing at all.