text: (warning, mental illness described) He looked over the balcony, the shimmering starlight reflecting in the growing puddles of a storm that had just passed. There was something beautiful about that moment. It was a space in between, when the future was still ahead but the past was now behind. This kind of moment could last forever. He inhaled the crisp, cold air of the witching hour. That’s what they call it, right? That liminal space between the twilight’s last tendrils, and the beautiful, piercing rays of the morning sun? I’ve always wondered if those hours were a gift to the damned and the broken. It always seems like they are the ones who take advantage. While the innocent sleep in the comfort of their dreams and ambitions. We broken few use the hours of silence, the hours of tranquility, to feel the full brunt of our loneliness, the entire weight of our depression, the deadly thrust of a blade which anxiety wields, while our anger and fear duel for supremacy of our mental stage. Forgive me, we were talking about him. You see, he’s right on the edge of the balcony now, looking down into the onyx pits that call him down, can you hear them egging him on? Daring him to aim for the center of their icy depths. He starts to believe, that maybe if he falls just right, he’ll never hit the ground. Instead, he will be transported somewhere else. Maybe to a place where it doesn’t have to hurt to exist. Maybe to a world where he can finally feel worthy of the air he breathes; maybe to a universe where he finally has purpose; maybe to an existence where he can be loved. He climbs the banister. He is not cold. The wind wiggles its way into every crevice of his clothes, wrapping him in a blanket of nothingness. He doesn’t even feel as it begins to pull him. He doesn’t even realize he is falling until the lurch of gravity begins to pull him downward. Not like this. Not now. Not here. He had so much to live for. At least, that’s what his friends will say at his funeral. Will his friends go to his funeral? Will he get a funeral? The invitation howls past his ears, incomprehensible, and yet so damn familiar. “Give Up” He stares up at the stars. They seem so much brighter now. They call to him. He can hear them sing. A melody so sweet and pure he feels unworthy to even witness it. They aren’t just singing. They are singing to him. Calling his name! Screaming out for him to reach up and grab a fistful of sky. If he could only reach, he knows they will save him. He remembers the melody they sing, a bittersweet tune of love and sadness. The stars must witness all that occurs under their valiant watch. The trees bring in a harmony and the stones of the earth add their deep, steady tones. He knows this song. It’s the one he used to hum as a small child, the one He always tried to write, but never found the lyrics for. It is his song, and the universe is singing it. He wakes in a cold sweat. It’s dark. The clock reads 3:14. The door to his balcony sits ajar, a howling wind and whispering rain siege the cracks of the doorframe. He closes the balcony doors. This is no time for sleep. We sang to him. And now he knows there’s still work to do.