At 3am in the morning when the visible streets are mostly empty, the trees here in the Fort are lonely, bathed in the pale orange, almost yellow light of lampposts; and only the occasional headlight of a passing vehicle as it washes over them that the green briefly shows, then it's back to tangerine monochrome sadness. Standing still in this early day scene betrays a concealed longing for somewhere as self-possessed as this place at this time or even the closeness of someone; a warmth in this cold, the silent assurance of a clasped hand and the refuge of an embrace.
There is a sense of beauty in this isolation, and always wary of the effect of its strange attraction to that certain part of my soul as there is a chance of losing myself. Solitude is always good lay, and perhaps something that I cannot live without; for in her company the world ceases, I find my space again without the confusions of time and obligations, that there's a meaning to all these recent distractions, a sense to whatever confluence of emotions that I am in. This is a beauty that I have always understood and appreciated, and as the cold of this morning intrudes and fails to make me shiver, I let go of Solitude and come back to this scene of forlorn streets and sodium vapor lamp-loving trees.
There is this one other thing that I have also become aware of in the past years, that in the ebb after Solitude goes away, I start to miss you.
