Late Night

Since I read The Wasteland, I've had this phrase T.S. Eliot used drumming through my head on and off. Anne Sexton also used it as the basis for one of her poems; come to think of it, Eliot might have borrowed it from somewhere else too, but Wasteland is the earliest source of it that I've seen. Last night (this morning) around 3-ish I had it racing through ad infinitum and decided to actually do something about it, not that it's anywhere near what Sexton did with it. It's nice to see that my correlation between late night writing and lucidity (lack thereof) remains intact.

Walking down a darkened corridor, (hurry) doors on every side of me. (hurry hurry hurry) The light at the end of the hall beckons. Pulls me towards its coldness. (please) Wind rushing. Vanilla in the air. It's time. (it's time) "Time for what?" I say. My words echo up and down the hall. No reply. (hurry up please). The wind changes direction, pushing me. Pulling me towards the end. (it'stimeit'stimeit'stime) Doors open and shut as the wind carries me along, gaining speed as we go. More voices issue from the quivering doors, a chorus for my comedy. "Hurry up please, it's time," they say. "It's not time," I say, "It's too late. I've already fallen." The light winks out. Silence and stillness. Hurry up please, it's time.

On an unrelated sidenote, I also really like the name T.S.