We have long since felt that there is something in the night. We feel it in the quiet hours. From the very first stories that were written down, there are tales of the darkness. Sometimes it is a terror to be feared, other times it is a mystery to be pondered.
Even now, it clings on in the age of acceleration. The time of clamour and cacophony. When the hive of humanity crawls over every surface, when movement is synonymous with progress. When the only silence people find is the one they force out in their own deafening musics. This is the era that knows no space. No peace. No darkness.
Yet sometimes, it creeps back. When the time is right and the populous weary, the city pauses, just for a moment. And is allowed to breathe.
The roads, crushed from endless tires, take time to inhale. The buildings all rest, no longer illuminated. The alleys, always so unnoticed, revel in their contact to the neighbouring streets. And slowly the city opens its eyes, unblinded.
The city is never truly free, and even in it’s moment of solace we invade. A single truck revs down the tarmac. A neon light flickers and bursts. And maybe you wake up, still half dreaming, and gaze out at the street. You see the safe yellow light spilling from a streetlight down the road, and through your curtains you take in the freeze-frame picture. Then, assured that you heard nothing, you shift back on the mattress and drift unconscious.
But in that moment you were an invader, an outsider. Witness to something you didn’t know you saw, pushing at something you didn’t know was there.
Take a moment, and you might find you remember.
The time you left your people.
The time you touched the city.
(Editor Comment: Many of these posts are unorganized or undated, but I do know this was the very first thing I wrote when I started to push myself to write.)