(“The Hanged Man”)
Light creeps through the void between you and…anywhere else. Eyes closed, but a glow gently comes to life, like the beginning of a slow breath. The pillow cradles your head, and the covers barely cling to your shoulder. There are decisions to be made, but when? And why? And, must you?
Upright
Such a stigma surrounds the lone, so often called lonely. But you stay in the bed, letting the many-layered void dampen the outside world. The noise is gone. The words are gone. In your own dark, you can find things you’re meant to possess – and bring them back to the light.
Reversed
But, the void stretches on. Every night comes with a dawn, and to go without sets the trap of denial. Instead of rest, you pull the covers over your head – tight. Leaves wilt, stems wither, and introspection turns into a kind of deafness – the well you’ve found yourself in feels that much deeper. The longer you stay, making excuses, the harder it is to climb back out of your indecision. Is this really about your rest and recuperation, or something else?
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