crossing

It was past midnight.

Rusted leaves rustled in midair as the wind blew her symphony across the branches. The air was still, but the leaves remained fluttering, grasping for that morsel of leverage against the wind’s playful jests.

It was dark, as abysmal as black gold, its slick slithering blindness envelops and encroaches. The only light is coming from the lowly street lamp. Flickering from busted wires wrapped in tin foil and tape. The moon glows, yet feels distant, almost dreamy. He watches over but seems to be inattentive.

The streets were deserted, except for a few cars passing by, and the occasional bus speeding its way along the boulevards of forgetfulness. The lines of the pedestrian path beaten and fading, but lingers.

I cross.

Taking in, and being taken aback, from the air that smelled of an impending drizzle, of leaves that sang and danced for my amusement, the blankness of space that blanketed by weary eyes and tired limbs, the comforting streets that remind me that there is always somewhere to go to, unending, ever-changing.

I stop at the middle of the road. The terminus of a direction, and the reversal of its path. The solid broad stroke that marks. It changes here. No turning back. I wonder, if across the plains that divide us, along barren streets and bare alleys, hurried traffic and the chaos of towering tragedies, the humdrum of elevators and the whirring of air-cons and the clickety-clap of keyboards, are you safely dreaming?

I cross again. And I was home.



Image from here.