An Ode to Morpheus

Written by Ambreen Ishrat

Continued from page 1

I enviously think of those who are sound asleep in their beds. I even envy those who stay up late by choice and still manage to get along with their day-to-day routine just fine. The marvellous generation of 'night people' - a different genre. What do I have in common with them? It is during such strange moments of serenity and uncanny silence thatrepparttar likes of Keats heardrepparttar 122301 voice ofrepparttar 122302 nightingale and so transported himself torepparttar 122303 realm of beyond, and Matthew Arnold contemplated uponrepparttar 122304 crisis of faith forrepparttar 122305 mortals. As for me, I stand as miserable and confused as ever, feeling stupid that I have exhausted my supply of sleeping pills. I am not up because I choose to. I don't haverepparttar 122306 luxury of getting up late. With bleary eyes and a puffy and exhausted face, I must braverepparttar 122307 world. I must get up atrepparttar 122308 crack of dawn and return late intorepparttar 122309 afternoon. Feeling panicky, I start to pace aroundrepparttar 122310 room. I ransack my medicine box feverishly like an addict, for a pill that might have escaped my groping fingers and must be hiding in some corner. But none are to be found. I sigh, as I can do nothing else.

I switch onrepparttar 122311 side lamp and seerepparttar 122312 room come alive in a soft hue of light and shadows, adding a delightfully mysterious and cozy look torepparttar 122313 walls and ceiling. So often I am struck withrepparttar 122314 feeling that at nighttime, all non-living things tend to exude a life of their own. The fridge hums and drones silently,repparttar 122315 walls whisper and breathe, asrepparttar 122316 electricity running behind them slithers, twists and runs with defying swiftness. I peer out ofrepparttar 122317 window on torepparttar 122318 street which looks deserted and dark. The carcass of a dying and spent moon is briefly revealed byrepparttar 122319 passing clouds and then its darkness again. Crickets creak, a dog lets out a churlish howl andrepparttar 122320 moths feverishly encirclerepparttar 122321 solitary lamp posts onrepparttar 122322 street, untilrepparttar 122323 night watchman whistles and everything turns still, but only for a moment and thenrepparttar 122324 rhythm resumes. A car passes by onrepparttar 122325 street, a midnight rider, whose stereo blare heinously and ruinsrepparttar 122326 perfect harmony ofrepparttar 122327 night and silence. As he passes away,repparttar 122328 dog howls loudly in protest.

The breeze at night feels so very gentle. A few dry leaves andrepparttar 122329 ubiquitous plastic bags are sucked up byrepparttar 122330 breeze and they start to dance in whirlwind motion. The breeze turns into a wind, which twirlsrepparttar 122331 leaves round and round onrepparttar 122332 deserted road, aroundrepparttar 122333 lamp posts and finally spits them out in a corner and then carries on its ballet alone. I prick my ears. A low rustle! Then a moan. It isrepparttar 122334 wind again. Andrepparttar 122335 wind does cry. I switch on to FM radio, hungry and desperate for a human voice. The radio hums and creaks as I setrepparttar 122336 bandwidth and finally sweet sounds of rhythm and blues start to emit, filling in my jarred senses with companionship and peace. So I listen on and on, silently humming and rocking myself to soothrepparttar 122337 dull pain in my body. I take up a long-neglected poetry book. Hours pass till I finally hear a slight chirp and then another one. The FM station has gone silent ages ago and static emitting fromrepparttar 122338 radio drones on.

I keep my book away. I have survived a night without my sleeping pills andrepparttar 122339 delicate sensation of yesterday sleeps on my eyelids. I blink softly, hoping not to loose any of it. The aurora is wakening;repparttar 122340 reign of darkness lies in recession. It's dawn and I am still looking through yesterday's eyes, though weary but withrepparttar 122341 hope that I am stepping into a new day and whatever it might bring. I will tackle it and I will tackle it well because I am a survivor, if not anything else.

The author is a 26 years old single female, hailing from Karachi, Pakistan. She has earned her masters degree in English Literature from the University of Karachi. Currently working as a content and creative writer at an IT firm, she dreams of pursuing a M. Phil degree in literature some day. Her hobbies include reading and writing. For feedback, comments or critique she can be reached at

Choosing Our Parents

Written by Skye Thomas

Continued from page 1

Shift gears with me here, for just a minute. Look into yourself and tell me what you are most proud of. Is it your tenacity? Your ability to pick yourself up and carry on no matter what? Your moxie? Your incredible ability to read other people and know just how to reach out and help them? Your artistic ability to create music that sings torepparttar soul ofrepparttar 122300 lonely and uplift them for just a minute? Your incredible work ethic? Your own ability to really be present and inrepparttar 122301 moment with your own kids? Sit for a moment and look atrepparttar 122302 incredible strength and amazing traits that you created for yourself despite your parents.

If I had beenrepparttar 122303 spoiled pampered princess I wanted to be, I would never be able to write for you today. It's because I come from a broken home that I know how important true loving connection is regardless of whetherrepparttar 122304 original two parents arerepparttar 122305 ones raising you or not. It's because I was underrepparttar 122306 impression that I was abandoned that I found out how to be strong and independent and no longer clingy and needy. I wouldn't haverepparttar 122307 pride and self assurance that I can overcome anything life throws at me if I had always hadrepparttar 122308 safety net of family to fall back on. Look into your own life. Would you berepparttar 122309 amazing person you are today if you had been raised with a silver spoon and ideal parents?

Initially when we begin our healing process, we can identify what particular flavor of 'screwed up' we are and who's fault it is that we turned out that way. Continuing onrepparttar 122310 path of healing, we get to a place where we can forgive those who helped createrepparttar 122311 mess that we became. Finally, we come to realize what a blessing it was that we got to go through that particular journey and to learn those particular lessons and to gain those particular tools and gifts as a result. Then we can be grateful that we choserepparttar 122312 parents we did.

Copyright 2004, Skye Thomas, Tomorrow's Edge

Skye Thomas began writing books and articles with an everyday practical approach to life in 1999 after twenty years of studying spirituality, metaphysics, astrology, personal growth, motivation, and parenting. After years of high heels and business clothes, she is currently enjoying working from home in her pajamas. Go to to read more of her articles and to get a free preview of one of her books.

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