Silverlight

The clock struck 12 and so does solitude. Gazing tirelessly into the mist of nothingness, wondering if there exists, a reason for it all. It is the beginning of a new day, the might sun will scorch brightly a few hours later, but till then its the moon, the solitaire up there standing lone among the black curtains, with light falling on my face, enlightening my vision, telling that there's someone up there, standing in the midst of darkness. Someone who took the baton from the yellow burner to spread white light at night. The burden of enlightenment in the midst of solitude because everyone's dozed off. He does not need to talk, his emotions are bound, or maybe it's because there's no one at this stark darkness to accompany him. He still does not care. Throws white light on my face as I stare. I think we have a lot in common. Our worlds are same but we rarely find someone. Its like pitch darkness, you see nothing, you see no one; maybe because there is no one. But he does not complain, fulfills his duty, he is enlightening, I might be his only company , but he doesn't care. s my face lights up, half though, with the silver light that enlightens both my body and soul. I look closely, I gaze back at the gazing moon. I see spots, I fell his spots. They are like incomplete, missing puzzle piece, denting his personality. But he is solitaire, he does not care, he's doing what he's appointed for- enlightening. But enlightenment is for people, and there are no people, there's only darkness, pitch black, hollow darkness, eating away anything that is present, or may be. But am sure there's no one, no one needs enlightenment, its just darkness. But he doesn't care. Just a few more hours and the yellow burner will take his baton back, as people need to see him for their morning. The white light goes unnoticed. But he doesn't care. And I still stare, stare at those spots, like hollowness, like fear, but he stands alone and does his work so its not fear. Its hollowness, something's missing, those missing puzzle pieces. But he does not bother, he doesn't want to find. I stare, I care, I feel the hollowness, looking for the missing pieces. I make efforts, but its just me, not he, for he does not care, just plays his role every night and leaves silently. He let the yellow burner brag. Is it the spots? is it because he's ugly? is it because he's tainted, imperfect, unlike the yellow burner which burns every inch of himself, nothing missing? I care, I think he's not ugly, the spots are scars, love scars, war scars, scars of good, scars of bad. They make him beautiful. The scars are beautiful, the spots are beautiful. People would disagree, although some might agree, but he doesn't care, for it is only I who stare and cares, I think too much. We have in common. I suffer, he suffers. I feel, I tell, he just stands quietly, silently, gazing, throwing the silver light, enlightening the darkness, enlightening the "no one", enlightening the nothingness. In the midst of solitude, he stays, I stare, but he does not care, he does not care, he does not care...