I find myself in those far away nostalgic lanes of memory staring along the expanse of cooling beach as the autumn waves lap lazily over one another bringing the tide closer and closer inland, making the once lifeless sand sparkle with the reflection of the blushing sun as it falls, falls...

And so falling it leaves me in this lonely world darkened.

And so promenading along the breezy beachfront the seaside scents linger then wane, the clouds melt to a deep scarlet and follow their falling from the sky. With a long, sweeping look I consider the shortening expanse of sea visible on the horizon. It shrinks with the light. But the advancing tideline reminds me of the contained urgency deceptively hidden in those seductive rises and falls, rises and falls.

A little like my life, I joke.

And who there to laugh? On days like these, in times like these, in moods like these, only a reflected image.

Briskly I walked as the sun fell.

Forget its dying beauty. It is a liar. Consistently it glorifies its fading moments, crying ‘SHOW ME SYMPATHY!' with its reds and its pinks and its deep, deep purples; only to be born again next morn. Repetitive sentimentality. Empty sentimentality. No, no: this observer grew wise to it thus tired of it long ago.

Silhouetted couples walk on the red-lit sand carrying their worn out hearts, worn out conversations. The clipped breeze brings to my ears the sound of their sighs. I scorn, scorn. The ignorance of those in love, I laugh: the bitter envy of those without. Yes, the beach at sundown. It'll be romantic. We can walk along the sand, yes of course - hand in hand. Dinner afterward, yes, then homeward under the stars.

But I had love once. It slipped through fingers so carelessly as the handkerchief of Desdemona. Foolish lovers, I recall bitterly, if it is romance you wish for, conquer the beach at dawn.

*

Homeward; alone. Does the moon shine with such authority to guide me? Does that jealous ruler of the night blot out faded stars with its own fiery grace for my benefit? Oh, but not fire; and, indeed, not grace. White for purity; white for innocence. I look at you and your serene white face is blotchy. No, lady love, I shall be guided by you no longer.

*

It was that time in the night when all external turns inward. Oh how I longed for intimacy just then. I would embrace again a hated face if she had appeared just then. Just then, a moment indeed; for when I was safe behind the pane of a window, looking out the world did not seem so cooperative as it had under the stars just then. Rather it seemed as I felt inside.

Like all other lost souls I lie awake at night, staring up at a starless ceiling. The most depressing thing for me is that no one will ever know, or ever care, about the judgements I make on the world as I lie there - along with fairness, honesty, sincerity, compassion, humanity - in darkness.

Farewell consciousness, these tears have turned to icicles and shall drop like assassins on my concerns.

To shatter into a thousand pieces and only add to the pile.

The night is filled with darkened pillows.

*

Eyes open; awake. I have the happiest birds living outside my window. With the early morning dew glistening bright sunshine, they fill the chilly clear sky with melodies and high pitched debate. Carelessly they drift from tree to tree; but once settled on a branch tightly do they jerk their little heads and blast forth song.

Hello the waking world.

Freshly arisen I whistle a little ditty. Catching a glance of myself in the mirror I smile shyly. Hypocrite, I say, you are just like the sun.