Every window is a small pocket, its edges frayed by the draining light, revealing a collection of packed away lives. In one house, each light is on, flickering ever so slightly as the moths guzzle their yellow elixir. But in other homes, the windows merely separate darkness from darkness. Curtains are drawn, gates are locked, guard dogs are falling asleep on the job. Lives are still being lived but quietly; soft breaths, still bodies, recalibrating minds. I walk by dormant stories, books tucked away in the less frequented parts of the library.
Down to the lavish castle and back up the hill; I’m spoiled to find such flashy magnificence routine now. But the darkness, and the dubious pubs and fragrant lilac bushes and slinking cats it hides, still intrigues me.
But even more intriguing is that when I return home, nothing will have changed. The darkness will continue for several hours more, the moths will take my open window as an invitation. One will even be brazen enough to hover beside my ear, and the fervent fluttering of fragile wings will push me towards sleep.
But first I will teeter on the edge of active and dormant, engaged and observant. The darkness is not absolute; the street lights are peering into my nearly transparent curtains. My body is not quite still and my mind is still speed walking through the night, sticking a synapse or two into light pockets in houses, and pin holes in the sky.
And tonight, even when sleep takes over, my plot line will unravel and tangle with others but my fellow characters will hardly notice because rarely do books read books.
Nonetheless, we are a trove of tales all the more beautiful when crowded together because there are no beginnings or ends, only the page turning mysteries of the night.
Read and linger,