My Witching Hour

The dead of the night has not been midnight since it was decided it was fine to sleep today when it was already tomorrow. The dead of the night has now become that creeping hour of black between the two am of the night and the soft faded sky of four am. 

Take a moment, if you will, and one day stay awake until the black starts getting sharper and thick and dense, like a painting with a layer of acrylic that an artist decided was necessary to cover up the spots. 

And after a moment, you will start to hear the whisper of  the wind against your bedroom window, the crackle of your sheets as you fidget.

The traffic fades to a soft silence,  broken only ever so often and the air is still enough to make you believe it too has fallen into deep slumber.

At this time you have no company to keep, except the light in your hands and the blankets around your feet, and you will begin to recite in your mind the very questions everyone seems to know, and yet are too afraid to ask, about life, love and everything about the world you know. 

And you will stay that way, until the  black starts blurring around its edges, becoming softer and smoother, until you are simply in early dawn, and the magic has disappeared. 

Until tomorrow.