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       I awaken at my window in an intense hysteria, fixating on the blackness of the night sky disrobed of its clouds, revealing unto me the waning sickle blade of moon overhead, an ethereal and hazy fog of subtle radiance bordering the luminous crescent.  The predominant portion exists dim and somber, outlined by an elusive contour and defined with a vague phantom of disposition.  But tonight the stars illuminate and reign over the night sky with a sovereign and divine presence that even those once so distant and opaque hold their entity of brilliance, for the small portion of moon is but a small and diminishing flame of a candle in the vastness of a great and barren room overcome by the shade that is the night sky.
       Closing my eyes, I listen to the steady rhythm of the waves lapping on shore, fighting their way through the jagged and slick rocks in hope of touching the shoreline.  The crickets, rubbing their hind legs together like a masterful violinist applying the bow to his strings, offer me a lullaby.  But this lulling I will not succumb to.  Not just yet.  For I have realized that, upon waking, I have been moved heretofore during the night, across the unseen dangers of the stone hallway, and have ended up here—next to my window—to awaken under the sky of the moon’s night reign.
       But such a matter, the cause, of my being here next to my window without any recollection of how I have precedently come to be here, in this particular place, can only be construed by my walking, in a deep slumber, to where I now lay.  Such a simple explanation, for that reason being, seems not to be sufficient.  It instead sends an irrevocable chill and shiver down my spine, as the coarse hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand on end as if from some electronegative-like charged force, some presence, has been applied to my surroundings, my hair seeming to be hundreds of fine needles effortlessly puncturing every pore and microscopic crevice of the nape of my neck.
       The pins in my neck, the cold surge of a chilling disturbance through my spine, and now the onset of nausea, as my mind slowly slips—no, is dragged—into the overwhelming realm of a fear that sits at the pit of my stomach, at the back of my mind, in the very chambers of my heart—an irremeable rubicon of fear.  And with every quickening beat of my heart I know that it, as my blood, with my blood, is being pumped and is traveling through the ever flowing streams. This fear is inescapable, inevitable, and inexplicable.  This being so, I cannot seem to find such words that would convey my disquieting dread.
       Since there are no words in my mind, it is instead filled with the steady overture of the crickets.  Such a beautiful sound—one would think that it would bring calm and tranquility to another in distress, and it does, but tonight it seems to only echo hollowly through my consciousness, and into my subconscious, where it  perturbs me greatly with every single whistle, every single smooth and soft chatter.  Other than the waves and the occasional breeze making its way off of the ocean, the crickets’ repetend is the only sound I hear, and it entrances me, but leaves me somehow conscious-minded enough for it to hopelessly reassure my solidarity.
       I know that I am alone and ever since I can remember being here I have not been able to draw any other moderately logical conclusion to disprove this.  It is a simple fact—meant not to be questioned, not to be contested, nor to be disputed. . . . And yet there seems no boundary, no uncrossable line that stands between myself and this.  The only comprehendible and minutely worthwhile factor in this seems to be . . . Fear.  Fear, she is captivating and permeating and unyielding, yet there is no unbreakable thread that binds me to her dreamlike dominance.  I am free to meander through her garden, her field, of penetrating anxiety and utter dread.  Yet she appears suddenly like the malevolent storm clouds that sneak up behind one unfortunate enough to be at her mercy, idly looming and black as the ashes of long ago fallen forefathers, ancestors—the perished kindred—and ominously hovering overhead, threatening to downpour at any given moment, with a promise to inundate into cataclysmic torrent, drowning all in its path.  And Fear, she rains on me from clouds of despair, a deluge of hopelessness, despondency, unmitigated, arrant horror.
       I sigh as if in an attempt to release the fright that has encompassed me, and rid myself of its entirety.  It is useless.  I am soaked in that very damned rain, that horror.  The flooding has passed my chin and gone up over my mouth, to the point of my nose, it seems.  Standing on my toes, diaphragm tensed and stretched, making breathing difficult, I am drowning in the floodwaters of fear.  I am suffering, I am sinking, I am immersed, going under, I am dying . . . calm—I must be calm.
       Steady.
       Breathe.
       Standing, inching closer to my window, leaning on the thick stone sill, I find myself tranquilly lost in the beauty of the moon, once again.  This is what I live for, Night—for you and your calming subsistence.  Your provided sustenance seems all that I need to endure.  And yet I am so alone.  No, I am not alone; the moon watches over me, my confidant, my light to protect me from what I cannot help but think lurks in the darkness of my mind, my heart.
       From below comes an easily identifiable, serene, yet eerie sound. A wise creature of the night offers unto me a question—who?  The inquiry of this noble bird is one to ponder, as it calls out with a smooth utterance, repeating the one syllable as if only to further emphasize the bearing of the question at hand, seeming to demand my answer, the solution to the unbreakable riddle that has sat at the back of my mind and has been moving forward with more urgency with every approaching moment, bringing to light the whole riddle in and of itself, overemphasizing its insistence to be revealed—who?  Who am I?
       I refuse to believe that I will never know, but the truth inside of me cannot silence the hope that lingers there—of how I believe, one day, that I will know who I am.  But a more pertinent question, consequentially the most compelling is one that I have often asked myself.  This question is simply why?  Why do I desperately cling to life as I watch and observe all around me, the only thing shifting and changing being the tides and the occasional direction of the breeze?  And how?  How can I exist day by day, always wondering why—why am I still alive?  But do I live; am I alive?  My heart beats its steady rhythm; my lungs breathe the surrounding air, even in this darkness; my touch feels the touch of another—if indeed I had another.
       A thought echoes through my lonely mind: Stop.  You must stop.  You must stop questioning; you know there are no answers for you.  Not here, not now.  Just . . . rest.  And breathe—yes, breathe—breathe the darkness through your lungs, for it is your air during this night’s reign.  Feel it circulate through your body and into the ever-flowing stream of your blood.  Other streams in your lifetime may fail you, erode and falter, dry up and be smothered by the heat, leaving you with no water to drink, and you will suffer.  But this, this stream will stay with you your whole life, until the end of your days, flowing inside you.  Yes, you must believe in this stream.  Rest now—it will never falter, never leave, never dry up, until comes the time of the end of your days.  It is only then that this stream will dry up on you and leave you without its ever-flowing nourishment.  But at that time you must let it go; bid it a goodbye and let it go; say a farewell and let it go—there will come a time when you will not need it any longer.  So rest, now; sleep.  Crawl on hands and knees to the room beyond the hall and sleep the day away.  You mustn’t worry; that stream inside of you will flow.  Before you know it the sun will set again, and you will be once more side by side with the moon.  So crawl back.  Crawl to your room and pay no mind to the door.  Just . . . sleep.
       And that is what I did.