A short story i wrote one morning after a night of insomnia, lemme know whatcha think, if you like 
---Upon His Knees
Upon his knees, in a vacant field in a vacant corner of the bustling earth was a man. He was distraught beyond measure, and to the shining stars he raged:
"Why will you not move on? Why do I not fall out of love with you as violently as I fell in?" Sinking further upon his knees and curling his face down to the earth, he sobbed. There were no tears, just the faint sounds of his wretched throat.
"Why can't I cry?" he shouted, frustration cracking a voice that might have resounded young and light were it not for his mysterious despair.
"Why won't you leave my heart? I dream of you, for you! You taint my every thought! And the night, the night!" he continued, his voice seething with broken, aimless anger.
"Never would I have brought such cruelty upon myself if I were to have known. No, I shall never again make the most beautiful and persistent of things the beacon of my love, rather it will be a slug, something small and ugly and forgetable. Thus will I never again feel the true, empty, bitter blackness of night within my heart."
The nameless man then curled up into a ball, rolled onto his side, and breathed shakily through his tearless sorrows.
Amidst the reelings of the wind, he heard a familiar whisper. A familiar whisper saying familar things, though they were such things as he had tried to forget, lest they break him. And here, in the moment of his deepest despair they came to reclaim his memory. Never could they have come at a more bitter time, for upon hearing them echo between the whirls of the wind, the strange man's spirit cracked like stone, and he wept loud and harsh and tearful. His sorrow continued hour after hour, until at last he fell into a troubled sleep.
For days he slept. Days unto weeks, unto months, until he was buried in the depths of the dust of time. Though life left him, and breath ceased from his lips, never did any wild creature disurb him.
From the very spot where he lay, countless years later, there sprung a small sprout of a tree. That sprout grew into the most magnificent Weeping Willow ever to be seen, with stunning white leaves and bark that never withered. Its branches twisted up and about, and the tree seemed to loom gently, as if it might be the softly halted physical form of a sigh.
There was some enchantment about the tree, but none ever dared seek it, for the reverence commanded when in presence of the tree kept it so that no living person ever could approach it without being overcome by foreign emotions of lost love and deep remorse.
But one living thing was ever given that unspoken leave to near the tree, and it was so tiny that any who saw it seemed not to take note. It was a bird, small and colored a gentle creme yellow. That single living creature was all that ever touched the tree, and it is said, that so long as the bird resided in the tree, it never died. Even as the willow approached ancientness among trees, the yellow bird never left its branches for more than a day, and it always shone with the same subtle brilliance as when it first came to the tree.
Such are some mysteries, forgotten, there and yet not there. Look. See. Let ignorance not take away such magic as there is, even in this world. Perception is a blessing beyond measure, let it take your breath away like the wind in the wings of a bird, or whistling through the sorrowful wisps of a willow, that has at long last found its peace.
Open your eyes.
---Upon His Knees
Upon his knees, in a vacant field in a vacant corner of the bustling earth was a man. He was distraught beyond measure, and to the shining stars he raged:
"Why will you not move on? Why do I not fall out of love with you as violently as I fell in?" Sinking further upon his knees and curling his face down to the earth, he sobbed. There were no tears, just the faint sounds of his wretched throat.
"Why can't I cry?" he shouted, frustration cracking a voice that might have resounded young and light were it not for his mysterious despair.
"Why won't you leave my heart? I dream of you, for you! You taint my every thought! And the night, the night!" he continued, his voice seething with broken, aimless anger.
"Never would I have brought such cruelty upon myself if I were to have known. No, I shall never again make the most beautiful and persistent of things the beacon of my love, rather it will be a slug, something small and ugly and forgetable. Thus will I never again feel the true, empty, bitter blackness of night within my heart."
The nameless man then curled up into a ball, rolled onto his side, and breathed shakily through his tearless sorrows.
Amidst the reelings of the wind, he heard a familiar whisper. A familiar whisper saying familar things, though they were such things as he had tried to forget, lest they break him. And here, in the moment of his deepest despair they came to reclaim his memory. Never could they have come at a more bitter time, for upon hearing them echo between the whirls of the wind, the strange man's spirit cracked like stone, and he wept loud and harsh and tearful. His sorrow continued hour after hour, until at last he fell into a troubled sleep.
For days he slept. Days unto weeks, unto months, until he was buried in the depths of the dust of time. Though life left him, and breath ceased from his lips, never did any wild creature disurb him.
From the very spot where he lay, countless years later, there sprung a small sprout of a tree. That sprout grew into the most magnificent Weeping Willow ever to be seen, with stunning white leaves and bark that never withered. Its branches twisted up and about, and the tree seemed to loom gently, as if it might be the softly halted physical form of a sigh.
There was some enchantment about the tree, but none ever dared seek it, for the reverence commanded when in presence of the tree kept it so that no living person ever could approach it without being overcome by foreign emotions of lost love and deep remorse.
But one living thing was ever given that unspoken leave to near the tree, and it was so tiny that any who saw it seemed not to take note. It was a bird, small and colored a gentle creme yellow. That single living creature was all that ever touched the tree, and it is said, that so long as the bird resided in the tree, it never died. Even as the willow approached ancientness among trees, the yellow bird never left its branches for more than a day, and it always shone with the same subtle brilliance as when it first came to the tree.
Such are some mysteries, forgotten, there and yet not there. Look. See. Let ignorance not take away such magic as there is, even in this world. Perception is a blessing beyond measure, let it take your breath away like the wind in the wings of a bird, or whistling through the sorrowful wisps of a willow, that has at long last found its peace.
Open your eyes.
