Dark Therapy

The Bridge Between Morn' and Midnight

Imagine Midnight Sally- cold and heartless. Her gaze cruel and words jagged.
In the darkness of night, her hands travel yours, soft and curious. Wondering and hoping, and it's the same every night. Yet every morn', it's a cold empty bed you wake up to and you think in your head how she's a coward. A bold faced lie that screams pretense. Cold and vicious. Eyes made for mocking, feet made for stomping. Holding everyone at an arm's length.
Running away.

You're always running away

Hands that are gentle in the darkness of night. Soft lines and pastel skies.
Come mornings,
It's never a surprise.

She always seemed to shun the light.

Now imagine Morning Sally who claims Midnight Sally uses her glare and coldness to keep people out. To keep them out of what really matters. However, Morning Sally, in all her cheerful, optimistic glory does not tell her friends of her sorrows. Sure, she talks to them and tells them everything but she never says everything does she? She lives brightly as the morning sky, her rays reaching far and wide but come nightfall and she is the Morning Lily. Midnight Sally feels the need to shut the world out and Morning Sally? Morning Sally uses her cheerful, optimistic front to hide beneath.
Ah the irony!

That is not the same, Sunshine Sally protests.

It is not? Is it not two means to the same end? Two paths with one destination? Blah blah..

Ah the lady doth protest too much.

Here's the truth plain and simple.
We are the same.
You and me.

We cannot work because we cannot love.

Cannot love?

Ah–I mean will not. Or won't? I never seem to know. It's like standing at the edge of the unknown, how do I know if I can return?

You seem to be talking about the start of a bad superhero movie.

What I mean to say is you love the sun, and I?
I love the darkness.
We're both cowards hiding behind our excuses and baseless reasons. To go down this path would be misery. I have never learned to let go, scared of abandonment, and you? whose hands I have held and whose lips I have touched–you've never learned to hold. How can we walk a path that we do not know where it goes?
And yet–I give myself to mindless wandering. What would it be like? To touch, to feel, to want? To yearn?
Wait.

If one were to fall because one were to walk, would one stay in the same place, never walking, scared of falling?

Ahh I see.

The point of the origin story is fucking up. They always fuck up, and then they throw of that cloak of responsibility and leave. They give it all up. In the face of fear and failure–they run.

Sometimes they fight.

They fight–and then they run. They always run.

But they come back–
they always come back, don't they?
They have that epiphany, that moment of truth and they come back. Always, no matter how scared they are.
Because running away never truly helped save someone.

If letting go is what frightens you,

If holding on is what terrifies you,

I will hold on to you, until you can.

Can we take off our masks? We can take it by a minute.

Promise me you will come back.

Dusk.
I can meet you there.

- A.A