It is past midnight on Saturday when she rises from her bed to stand in the middle of the room, seeking purpose. It is a beautiful room, painted with colours chosen when she was sixteen. A tangerine wall looks sideways at bottle green curtains that move gently with the muttering undertones of night. At the head of a pile of mattresses, amber and gold blend intimately to slither off a clay jar and illuminate the ruins of settling into a new home.
There is no one here with her - but there should be. The overwhelming thought of the day.
Abruptly and silently, the weight of living alone in the big city bears down. She walks to the front door to slide heavy locks into place. Melancholia undulates in those twilight spaces as she makes her way back and settles into her bed and her book. Eighteen minutes later, the letters begin to lose meaning as her eyes lift into the corner cradled by the window sill and curtains.
Tonight, winter has come calling. Lying in bed, listening to the wind saying "rush, rush... but wait" and watching the street lights dancing their way into mosaics on the window pane. My tongue slides out a little. This moment tastes different. Not the vanilla of monotony but salty - like anticipation.
This moment smells of moonlight and peaches, taking birth into the sepia of this midnight.
This moment feels like blue ink drawn slowly... labouriously... beautifully... over scarlet paper into lines of wisdom and emptiness.
Like the underbelly of a fuzzy fruit. Grotesque and tantalizing.
Strange. To be brought, unawares and extempore, to the cusp of something big. Or something small. To feel the blue air and myself intermingling and coalescing to send something bursting forth into sudden, delightful... but hestitant animation.
How I ache this night. Simply living this moment. An eternity in this ephemeral epiphany. A riot of blue and scarlet, brown and copper, and green and tangerine.
For this night, dreamscapes of warmth and a whisper of peace. For this night, a journey to be begun... a road not yet taken. For this night, strength and fragility, forgiveness and surrender. For this night, memories. Old and worn, lovely and cherished.
For this night... may your rest be joyous.
She closes her book and switches off the light. Her smile warms the darkness and the street lights dance steadily on. In a heartbeat, she is asleep.