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Silence Of The Night

In the silence of the night, I find peace. The world is so chaotic, moving clumsily along with all the cognition of a vegetable. Everyone is trapped in their own heads, unable to emote and empathize with those a few feet from them. We live in a society of paper mache stones filled with silk. Everyone wants to look tough, hardened and courageous, yet when the flame responsible for tempering boys into men approaches them, they cower like rodents, their ridiculous true colors revealed pitifully. Wispy tendrils of random hair passing for beards and ironic, cliche tattoos adorning disturbingly scrawny bodies are the order of the day here. I hate these fucking people, yet even in the comforting, exciting abyss of my beloved darkness I cant escape them. Oh well, at least the tea's good.

I have my routine, like anyone else. Perfectly calibrated and honed for me personally, birthed by my own hand, it enlivens and relishes me. As my girl is currently confined to base due to a tragically expected miscarriage of Naval justice, Im once again a wandering loner, if only part time this time around. Every night  after 2200, she returns to her room and slips into a restless sleep, looking deliciously enticing all the while. As she slumbers, my nocturnal excursions begin. I begin at the poker room and begin my true education as I ply my real trade. I dont need this world and all of its repulsive, annoying trappings. Ive always loved Poker and the freedom it offers. From the moment I internalized the hand rankings to the first hand of 5 Card Draw my angelic Grandmother dealt us, the game has resonated with my spirit. If that sounds like embellishment or exaggeration to you, fuck off. If the middle aged white women here are allowed to waste their husbands' money on endless, pointless dog grooming, then I dont have to justify my own personal passions. Ive made $1000 in the past week due to my skill alone, so go work on your cars and play COD. The men have real work to do out here in reality anyway, and youd only get in the way.

After winning my nightly $100-$200, I drive to Lestat's Coffee House. My girl and I  discovered it completely by accident. I  vaguely recall an ex mentioning it, but the thought had vacated my mind due to lack of importance. She hates it for some reason she cant articulate accurately, and I couldnt care less. The bohemian, vaguely Victorian vibe, eccentric clientele and diverse, exotic collection of teas bear a strong resemblance to Fairgrounds Coffee in Ghent, VA. In short, Ive fallen in love with this place. A tasteful, artfully unadorned bookshelf brimming with everything from the collected works of the virtuosic beatnik poets to crudely scintillating erotic fiction pleases both the voracious bibliophile and snobbish aesthete in me. Although I havent published anything in awhile, an injustice that will be remedied from this moment on, I have written many poems and journal entries here with only the moonlight and my leather jacket for company.  Its the kind of atmosphere that fosters inspiration and creativity. The kind I dreamed of incessantly in college, and the kind I long to disappear into forever.

The homeless denizens of any given area, in this case Normal Heights, are the pulse of the city. They serve as warning signs, dangerous threats, and repositories of priceless information. During one night I witnessed one fight off a jumble of hipsters harrassing him. I found it delightfully amusing and deeply satisfying to see the vagrant punch one of the spoiled trust fund brats spark out with a practiced, well aimed straight right thay belied ring experience. Effete fey "men" like this make me loathe mentioning any amount of privilege I enjoyed growing up, as Ive learned people automatically group you in with this sort. Not the case at all. After they had been sufficiently educated in the ways of the street and had vacated the premises as fast as their spindly, drainpipe jean clad legs would carry them, I approached the vagabond. His name was Joe, and he was a homeless veteran. We spoke at length about his service, his history, and his life in general. I gave him $20, and he broke down, thanking me profusely for my kindness. I held my composure, walked to my car, and wept openly. If a man is broken down and reduced to a blubbering mess over an insignificant amount of money and the generosity of a complete stranger, what does that say about us as a whole?

Driving back to base is always an exercise in deep contemplation. Sometimes Ill park my car in Coronado and lay in the sand. My allergy isnt activated by the cool luminescence of the moon, so Im safe. As the sand envelops me, intermingling with my bare torso and permeating my pores, I allow my thoughts to roam freely, unhinged and unchained. Sometimes they scare me, which Im not afraid to divulge. We all have our demons, the embodiment of our negativity and stress. What we need to remember is that were not stuck with them or shackled to them. Its quite the opposite in fact. They are our slaves, our employees, our children. In the still of the purgatory between azure night and awakening dawn, find your solace. We all have our personal safe havens, however obtuse they may seem to others, and these are the times when we are closest to God. Travel there as much as possible. Allow your soul to unfold and reveal itself to you. Youll be surprised at what you discover, the secrets you were keeping from yourself for fear of reprisal. I know people, men and women, that are chronically terrified of being alone. Theyre petrified at what the ever present, slightly subdued voices in their heads might reveal when allowed the freedom to run amok. I was one of the. Dont be like this. Embrace the pain, and live.

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