Tonight I was out walking, and there were low clouds that reflected city light back down into everything.
Especially evident were the silhouettes of things. I spent a couple of minutes tracing the skyline of trees and rooftops against the oddly illuminated night sky. Several times it felt like a dream. It feels like a dream now.
Lots of houses had their curtains drawn open and lights on tonight. Maybe it's because of the pearly light outside. I stopped each time I noticed and looked inside. The interiors of living houses fascinate me and attract me. That lives happen in there. Actual lives, that I'll never know about. So many loves and closenesses and things that really matter... things that really matter to so many somebodies, that I'll never ever know about.
It feels wrong somehow. The separation of us from each other.
It feels wrong somehow. The separation of us from each other.
So catching a glimpse through a window of a coat flung onto a banister is an intoxicating validation of my hope that love exists as a real thing, and that suffering is a natural counter-balance which exists to open up insight into gifts like these.
What else but love could bring such a thing into existence, a carefully constructed stairway railing which exists solely to provide careful support in order to protect a precious life against the calamity of chaos? And the fact that such a love is ubiquitous in nature and never scarce, is proven by the coat which is casually thrown over the trailing. Evidence that such careful love must be so common as to be taken for granted.
What else but love could bring such a thing into existence, a carefully constructed stairway railing which exists solely to provide careful support in order to protect a precious life against the calamity of chaos? And the fact that such a love is ubiquitous in nature and never scarce, is proven by the coat which is casually thrown over the trailing. Evidence that such careful love must be so common as to be taken for granted.
