The Dark Night of the Flute

In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, (1936)


I woke up at three o'clock yesterday morning and that isn't meant as poetic commentary. It's the truth, for insomnia follows me at times as relentlessly as dawn follows night. Aurore goddess of the Dawn, approaches me after a sleepless night like a solar flare streaking through the window and straight into the cornea of blue eyes.

Princess Haiku, you inquire, how can a ghost possibly be an insomniac? I reply, who ever said that ghosts don't sleep? People have certain assumptions about shades and spectral beings that are unrealistic. Ask me and I will tell you that at times, it as difficult for a ghost to follow the great Z as anyone else.

So, back to my story. I woke up on the night of the dead moon at three o'clock wanting to play my flute. However, as an urban flute player I know that is a potentially life threatening desire.

Flute playing was once a tranquil sea for my spirit and has now become a haunted, turbulent seascape. I almost want to escape its inexorable demands. A Princess Haiku with no flute? Impossible. A flute playing insomniac ghost with a case of melodic ambivalence? "This experience money just can't buy!"

Do you think this is about deviantArt? It just might be.