Starry Night @ 3am
The stars were so bright, it could have been day. Woken again by their light, no matter how long you waited, or how far you went, you could never reach what it was you saw through that window, the only way out of the world you knew. Again, it was on fire, as if the sky were torn, and what ever it was that made them shine, was flowing out into your veins, where it moved through your body like blood, waking you once again.
No one understood just how much they meant, the colors you saw. The doctors, cold and mathematical as stick-figures, jotted notes about madness, and latter the experts would theorize it was the side affects of some toxic substance, that made your world so beautiful. And they were right, you were poisoned by the indifference of the world, and you were freed from its ironclad reality, hiding in the safety of your four-chambered cell, which was no longer large enough to hold your soul as it grew and grew, until it was too big to be contained, and there were no more windows, no more walls, so you painted the sky; the moon, curved and delicate as blown-glass, the distant hills, blue as your own eyes, and you raised your brush like a wand and stilled the invisible wind that swirled like falling angels above the violent cypress, that was crooked and gnarled as an arthritic finger, an old finger, one who remembered what the light had once meant, that pointed to a place too faraway for anyone to touch, or even see. And so you reached for it, beyond the dim, golden windows where insomniacs burned candelabra like witches, and you waited and waited for all of it to fall; but it never did, and so you took what you could find and brought back a beauty that did not belong to anyone; and a truth, that no one would ever believe.