To Make Something.

The night slipped by slowly and unexpectedly; I forgot what to do with it and how. It's morning now and I've been making desperate attempts in my half-wakefulness to make something but I don't know what. I think I dreamed in words and so I woke in words. But my dreams are a blur of the night-past and gone- to not be found again but in more dreams. I'm certain I'll dream of last night and the way it slid by so easily, without effort or sound. I wonder if I did anything, wrote anything, and I imagine I must have because I woke from the evening with such perfect balance and ease, crawling back into words, into days, like that was the only place in the world where I belonged. Yet, at the same time, I recall the evening with the same balance of tone and time as if there, as well, I was the only place I'd ever been. And even now, I can't recall the thoughts which led me to these thoughts. I can't recall the events of the evening because it was so normal and easy. It just walked me, led me hand in hand, through it, depositing me in the morning, leaving me in the light. And in the light I saw everything I was in the dark but still didn't know why I ever was these things and moreover why I remained to be them, shining and proud, the sun shining on everything.