i walked out a wooden screen door, with carvings that belonged to mid-century houses that people like Esther from The Bell Jar retired to. i walked into a street that was shimmering and aglow from the streetlights and the dim sheen of rainwater that lurked in drops on everything. the street was empty. i felt like i had accidentaly stumbled onto a movie set that was certainly not starring me. all was quiet. all to be heard were the remenants of the day's earlier rains still draining from various unseen pours and crevices. there was an eerie feeling about the town, the air that night. streelights were the only thing to go by. there was no moon. and candalabras in hallways were either quenched or obscured by some slightly more penetrating darkness. blinds were drawn. locks were bolted. safe havens that were beds were being occupied by the towns catarpillar children. their moths and butterflies still fluttered about the hallways like electrons excited. there should have been night life. there should have been wind. dogs barking. there should have been stars. but there weren't.
it reminds me of a dream now, looking back. i forget sometimes, feelings like those. i go back and read them as someone who never expirienced them. but then the memories come back, flow through my veins again and transport me to that magickal place where i am awake, but still dreaming. where my gauzy wings have a slight chance to bloom. where people might even see me if they looked.
nights were often like that now. the rain was constant, a factor of life. like the cold. every day was the same misery, the same dreary, dead, grey colour. i felt like red a lot. the kind of purple-red that you often see in photos of infected hearts in science textbooks. |
