One-third of the earliest dawn

is the departure hour of the sanity. Logic surviving the last twenty hours collapses as wits meet a dead end. Eyes shut under lack of light witness phospenes crisscrossing. Lips faintly murmuring lines of favourite lullabies freeze below vacant atmosphere. Awareness goes vague, unwanted diffidence arrives, we sleep awake during loud midnight dialogue inside our head.

To feelings that momentarily vanish since the first sunup and reappear at the leaving of Sun’s beam I accuse. Sleeping and heading away from realism may be the most polite way to escape as well as the kindest remedy at the moment, but we just cannot. We walk down all pathways heading to the gateway of subconsciousness only to find out it is locked still. Half of the earliest dawn falls betimes, and nothing but sounds of noiseless wind knocking windows rhymed with tick-tocks of timepiece; but we hear too much more as the busy conversation inside our brains goes severe.

About your questions, your custody, your presence.

My anesthetic.

All things I cannot own.

Originally published at

Like what you read? Give Nabilah Adani a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.