018 the man who would not sleep

Two old men sat back-to-back on plain wooden chairs. They were in the middle of an otherwise empty white room, dimly lit by a bare bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling. The first man faced a window to the east, waiting for the break of dawn. If anyone had been watching, however, their eyes would have been drawn immediately to the other, who sat facing the western window.

"Come," he said.

He was dressed in a cloak like a sleepy rain cloud - lavender-grey and lined with silver. He was a man of contrasts - his rheumy eyes were at once merry and melancholy, his ashen hair both thin and rich, his stately presence delicate yet enduring, his very being fresh yet ancient beyond understanding. He was Evanescence. He was Eternity.

With palpable patience he contemplated the western horizon; the sun had long since turned in for the night. In his right hand he held a small pile of sand.

The first man was just as still, but nowhere near as peaceful. He was like a statue, motionless, but his appearance of quietude was betrayed by the intensity of his gaze. His worn clothing and weary manner said all that there was to say of his life.

He was Fatigue. And he was Regret.

Slowly but surely, his head dipped and his eyes closed. Suddenly, his head jerked back to its original position and his eyes snapped open again.

"I won't go," he said. "I can't."

The other was quiet for a moment. "And why not?" he asked wistfully. "What light through yonder window breaks? I can tell you that the west is dark. You can see that the east is no brighter. Come, old friend."

"I can't," he repeated.

"I've given you many good dreams over the years, haven't I? So again I ask - why not?"

"No time," came the heavy reply. "There's just not enough time. There is still so much left to do. So much I haven't done..." he trailed into silence.

"Go then, dear friend. Go and do what you must."

But neither man moved.

"You will not go and neither will you come," the ancient man sighed, "but you cannot stay here. Not for much longer."

"And if I sleep, then where do the minutes and hours go? I've lost days and months." He paused. "You are a thief. And you've stolen years of my life."

"Will you come?"

He smiled a bitter smile. "No. How much more time must you take from me?"

"Time," the cloaked figure repeated, a sad smile on his face. He looked down at the sand resting in his palm. A few grains slipped through his fingers, winking out of existence in a small burst of light before reaching the dusty floorboards. "Time is ephemeral."

He stood and, with his left hand, removed an ornate hourglass from a hidden pocket in his cloak. He transferred the remaining grains to the instrument with a well-practiced fluorish. "Goodbye, my friend," he said as he placed the timer on the seat he had just vacated.

The stubborn old man said nothing, but continued to watch the eastern horizon. Soon after, he was alone. The only sound was the whisper of sand as grains trickled through the glass.

When the sun finally broke over the eastern horizon, the shadows in the room stretched into being. A word echoed in the room, though no voice had spoken aloud.

"Come."

The old man bowed his head. As the last grain of sand fell from the upper bulb to the lower, a skeletal hand touched his shoulder.

He went.