Not quite asleep, not quite awake. That mystical edge of existence where anything is possible. For some, like my father, it's the witching hour. The time when the lines between the living and the dead are blurred. The time where my grandmother, with all of her wisdom and guidance, could safely float the ship into harbor and settle the storm. For me, with my not yet awakened sight, it's far more random.
My brain flashes on memories and images like lightening, illuminating them for just a second and then fading. The moment when we first kissed, sitting on the park picnic table, under the streetlights. The insight I gained from the masterful way you handled that question, that fear. The reference to some shared cultural exposure- not exciting or earth-shattering in its own right, but illustrative of these superficial connections which are carved into much deeper crevices in the tapestry of our story. And my mind switching, switching between them. Each for only a split second, but so deeply felt.
And in the hours of waking light, after I've been dragged away from the twilight madness into the harsh reality of day, I try to make sense of it all. There must be logical explanations, surely. Some neurotransmitter firing the way it does when one is stimulated by lust. How memories form in the subconscious when rules of format and category don't apply. Thoughts- meaningless, unimportant and so easily dismissed when studied, dissected and pulled apart under the microscope of sterile self-study.
But beneath that- beneath the stories and explanations and clinical categorizations that file things into orderly classes- there is something deeper. Something closer to the soul. Something growing, like a fetus in the great mother's womb. Something, perhaps, like love.