It was your standard issue cold, dark night; a night a philosopher and a cup of coffee could keep each other company and watch the light rain turn to snow. Falling snow has never ceased to amaze me: the romanticism of the image, the lethargy of being carried by the lightest wind, the beautiful myth that each was unique. It always seemed to me a metaphor for existence. Maybe that is just hopeful. That I’m right. That everything can be incredibly simple.
The street was actually eerily empty. It hadn’t dawned on me as I pondered the workings of the universe, but as I woke from my oblivion I found my otherwise acceptably occupied street completely barren. Silence takes its time on you; it works into you, building paranoia in its own calming way. I had to think. About anything. Just regain active control over my fading consciousness: mute my defiant internal monologue.
I took the last sip of coffee and left the house.
I expected the bustle of the main street to comfort me, but this wasn’t to be. Most everything was quiet all the way down. No cars. No open shops. House lights off. The streetlights provided each other companionship and the disenfranchised neon signs and bus-stops lay low, making no attempt to encroach. I kept walking.
My shoes made little sound on the street and the loudest noise was me compulsively clicking my lighter on and off. I passed the second-hand bookstore, a vegetable shop, and half a dozen empty plots before I lit my last cigarette. The sky had come alive by then. Orange was stealing the purple and the fog was lifting off the lake.
The sun broke the horizon. Beaming. It stared me down, but I was not shaken. We each revelled in our distinct solitude.
Note: I don’t know what this is. Dylan is playing.
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