Some nights are completely uneventful. You turn out the light, roll over, and wake up at cock's crow, refreshed. Other nights, you regain a blank, black consciousness to find yourself holding someone else's television, or standing by an open window on the first floor.
But some nights are deceptive. You dog-ear the page you're reading, close your eyes and drift off to sleep happily enough, but when you wake up, the world has shifted slightly. A small, almost imperceptible change has taken place: you are no longer who you were.
Last night, the sky was clear and pin-prick-holey with points of cold light. The Milky Way surged eastward and all around, leaves rattled dully in a crescendoing breeze. The trees waited in the dark as if nothing made any difference to them. So did I.
But something did make a difference, and when I woke, I knew the night had changed me. A flame had been extinguished; something had been stilled. I was not displeased with these results. Trying to be my old self has proven pointless. The old tracks had buckled and rusted in the space of hours; there's no way back now.
No comments:
Post a Comment