Dark.
Like times before when I laid myself out bare to the night, I find only questions with no answers. Questions about love, questions about money, questions about sex … the simple things. Questions that only bring about more questions until I’m faced with fatigue and cannot ask any more questions.
Night.
When I sit in silence, only the wind dancing with the trees and myself fixated on some unseen point in front of me, can I find some calm. Some rest. Some peace. And then come the questions.
But not tonight.
Tonight I find myself not asking any questions, for I’ve grown too old to be chattering on like a child with many years ahead of him, but demanding answers to the questions I’ve whispered into this very same night some time ago. I’m finding that the night is angry with me.
It has been providing answers all this time but I’ve not been paying attention, and that’s not a good way to get someone to want to help you.
Here I am, dear friend. Asking of you the same things I’ve asked before, but older and more determined. I pray the answers have not changed from years past but will accept my fate either way. You know my questions, please tell me again the why, the what and the whom.
I am listening.