Hour Of The Wolf

Another post from the hour before dawn, from the hour of the wolf, when monsters creep out of our nightmares, when most people die, and children are born. This day began long ago, and much was said today, but in the vacousness of an empty day, nothing was really said. Did we all dream different versions of the same dream or do we really believe that our love speaks like thunder and cool summer rain in a grove of old banyans?
I don't know. Maybe you only understand these things in retrospect....to inspect by looking back. Who hasn't had the nightmare when he is walking down an endless corridor that twists and turns? Every second you believe that the shuffling beast following you is just around the corner, about to show itself and destroy your sanity with its appearance. You quicken your steps and try to escape it. You are safe till you see it. But there's no true escape. Only waking, and a postponement of vision. If you ever see it, and not wake up, you are either in a story or somewhere terrible. Is retrospection like that? Is sanity really that fragile, is reality real?
You might allege I dwell in cliches. But who has ever explained them? One man's fears are another man's comedy. But we talk and talk and talk. But do we talk so that we may get a response? Who is this other who responds? Is our speech just a means to itself? An endless mantra, signifying nothing? A succession of lovers, but no love?
I don't know.