Disillusionment

I have been constantly reminded of something lately. At night, I find myself sitting and staring into the darkness of my window. There is a vibrance of quiet hustle, the snores of a city in eternal turning. I wish to be the noise, not the observer, and again and again I am brought back to this poem:

Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock by Wallace Stevens

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.

There is so much here. He knows the desire to part of it. He knows the ghosts that I see constantly: unaware peons of tribe praying to ego and irony. And all I wish to be, is a drunken old sailor, catching tigers in red weather.

Just a thought anyways.