The wee hours of the morning are conducive to introspection. The mysteries of silence and darkness in the early hours coincide with dimensions of self that hide behind curtains of anonymity. Thoughts that one can share only with oneself—no matter how they try to hide in those dark moments—rise to the surface of consciousness, revealing aspects of personality both fascinating and troubling. Yet I wonder whether those revelations really are components of personality but are, instead, features of one’s self-portrait that remain hidden beneath layers of discarded paint that conceal the artist’s fears and passions. I often return to a concept whose magnetism is so powerful that it overwhelms any concerns I might have about what the idea might say about me. Regardless of what it may divulge about me, I cannot help but explore it; open it up and let the masks fall away. Instead of answering questions, though, stripping away the masks creates more lines of inquiry. Simple questions grow into quests. Daylight, though, will interrupt the inquisition. The sun’s intrusive rays will not infringe on my solitude for an hour and a half, but that brief delay is insufficient to ensure success. I need more control over daylight and darkness. I need powers that normally are reserved for fantasies. Not “need.” “Want.” I’ve heard it called a hunger for power. A thirst for control. Greedy desire for for unchecked influence.
Years ago, I wrote about my wishes:
I like the idea of writing the autobiography of fire. The concept suits me. Fire draws us in, pulling us closer. But fire refuses to let us get too close. We cannot be close enough to safely understand the rage of combustion; we can only guess at how fire feels, what occurs at the precise moment when something solid becomes a superheated gas that disappears into smoke. Fire embodies passion. Raw, unbridled passion.
But it’s more than that. Suddenly, though, I am tired. I have no energy to overcome this damn radiology fatigue. I will just sleep my way through it.
