2 a.m., and the place is quiet enough for the drop of a pin. The blackest black, the kind no color chart has ever honestly named. A strange place, known to be home for many. A place that changes the human body quite literally from the inside out. The effect, it seems, is felt by both the breathing and the no-longer-breathing lungs alike.
It does not allow a man to fold his knees upward. A rather indifferent arrangement for someone who had been upright his whole life. Whether time still exists for the ones lying deep, it is not entirely certain.
Some are perhaps still complaining about the position they were placed in, that one uncomfortable angle, that arm still folded wrong. Or about the family that forgot to place their favorite keepsake beside them.
Some lie there staring into the blackness. There will always be someone among them trying to devise a scale to measure the depth of dark in there. A useful instrument, really, for those who have considerably more time lying inside than they ever did outside.
Some are perhaps breathing for the first time in there. Some are looking for peace, while others might simply be relieved to have escaped the outside.
Not all share the same ground or length, but they share something else entirely. After all, what else is there to do when you are left amongst a company of lying humans?
The wandering wind passes over the graves like a drawn sheet. There is no distinction between day and night in here. The hours, the seasons, the urgency, none of it reaches them anymore. They have, at last, nowhere to be.
They all lie there — each with their own weight, their own unfinished thoughts, their own private quiet. And somewhere between the slowly separating flesh and bone, the darkness, and the wind moving through it all —
some are born in a graveyard.
