In Between Sunrises

I feel a strong need to write again. Like my fingers are on fire and the clickety-clack of of my keyboard is part of some elaborate stop-drop-and-roll technique that I never really perfected until it was needed. 

It's nice to be needed. I think. I've heard that, at least. It would be nice to know again that if I decided not to show up, or do my part, that something would be missing in the world. It would be nice to have to leave my apartment for some reason. It would be nice to get that urgent phone call at 2:oo in the morning. The one that says "I need you." 

I'm told that it's tiring to be needed all the time. Some people say that. Those people should try being completely useless. I just want to sleep all day. My life is like a shotgun fired into the air. A big distraction, with no purpose. Just a brilliant flash, and then everything scatters. I'm sitting alone in a meadow where everyone once was. I think I scared them away. Or maybe they got bored and left. I would leave too, but I've nowhere else to go, nowhere where I make sense. This is my meadow. And it's dark here. I can't see anything clearly. I might as well sit down and wait for morning to come. If it does, then I'll be able to see soon. I guess that's when I will know what to do. Until then, all I have is alone. All I have is dark. The morning has not come yet. 

God, I wish I could see you, and hear you. I wish you were somewhere nearby where I could run. I wish I could get up and find you. But it's dark, and I can't see. So I will wait. Wait until the morning sun warms my eyes, or until I feel your hand on my shoulder. If you tell me to run in the dark, I will trust you. But tell me something, and tell me soon, because I am tired of sitting. I am tired of dark. I am tired of waiting for morning to come.