Cadence

An innocent request, at an unexpectedly appropriate time:

write a brief but disproportionately difficult attempt to rest…

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It would be a distinct brand of baffling, I’d say, to be given such a task no thirty minutes sooner than the unholy witching hour.

Baffling, I’d say again, but I can’t say what more of; that it illuminates the rather embarrassing reality of how strikingly reflective the request is to current consequence, almost tangible – one might curiously propose, as if embodied within one’s physical self – or, that it serves to mock that very premise instead.

One where the protagonist, you in this case, is secretly well aware of said witches looming in dark corners, patiently ready to reveal themselves within the sanctity of what brief period they’re mythically allowed to roam, unceremoniously, I might add – if it wasn’t at all a myth.

Yet it would add character to a night, if I had the unwitting indulgence of encountering one.

But I digress.

Ah. Digression.

A laughable epiphany; for it is that very trait that I possess that hath landed me in this awkward position with you.

And the witches.

It isn’t usually this entertaining, I’d say. It is conversely quite a bit louder. Senseless noise that might bury any semblance of hope somewhere deep between the belly and the nether area.

As if I myself was not already in a very nether area of my own.

But I should quickly address the ask, lest I lose you altogether, stuck in this endless depth of nether areas.

Let’s think about this, nothing deep this time, I assure you, unless you count the appalling lack of one in slumber.

I suppose there is this carousel of bed and sofa, oh no, I think it would be better labelled as musical chairs.

The sofa usually wins.

Otherwise there’s reading, hardly any writing, unless you count ruthless, and dare I say relentless, otherworldly and deliberate…
(wait, there is one more adjective that escapes me at this moment).
No matter, as I was saying, this obnoxious, premeditated injection of a highly cognitive ask…
(Blatant. That was what I was looking for. Darn it.)
of a creative penning down of prose, no less, with witches for company.

I lie. The witches have all left now, probably from the boredom, but more likely because they discovered an unexpected witness.

Other times, I build musical symphonies in my head; yet there is danger in those attempts, and it depends on how exciting or mundane the result. I’d say with certainty that they are usually much more phenomenal, exponential only in relation to how much I need it not to be.

Sigh. It occurred to me there is not much else left to say; and yet, after all those words, I haven’t actually had a chance to be explicit.

About what.

Such is cadence.

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