The nights

The nights come every day. In a swift moment, the chia seeds of time swirl, then rest. The glass is filled with water. “It is impolite to refuse a sip,” the nights say. Who wouldn’t oblige? But, again, the nights are known for tricks and tests. “What awaits at the end of the glass?” I dare ask. “Everything you’ve ever dreamed of. The horizon, in all its reachable splendor.” I’ve heard enough. Glass up, the water mutters something to me — or to itself. The water is calm, and I take my first sip.

The first sip is always imperceptible. It doesn’t know it’s a sip, nor that it contains water, or that the water contains it, one never knows. The second sip —the one you go for thirst, not knowledge— feels less faint. As the water fills out my mouth, the tongue inspects each individual droplet for day residues. A few seeds are denied entry altogether, ruthlessly separated from their recently-made work friends, never to be seen again. A few others, bull-headed, cling into the walls and make their way into the unknown.

The droplets themselves wait in line until the inspection is over. Once all chia seeds have been separated, the water is swallowed in one big gulp. Nothing happens. I take another sip, carefully making sure no seeds are allowed entry but, of course, a few renegades invite themselves in.

“Eventually, you all concede.” There’s no point in trying to deceive the nights. I drink the whole glass. I rest my head in the moon, trying to see the end of the road, the way the nights intended it, but it’s empty. It’s been looted, and there’s debris of the withered days everywhere. So I am filled with the nights, but the nights were empty.