The silence of the city at night is never absolute but it drapes over buildings and sidewalks like an idyllic resolution to the day. In the darkness shadows take new shapes, morphing into playmates for the still rebellious mind of youth trapped inside an ageing body. In other parts of the world the sun conducts a riot of noise and movement; here all is quieter than the neglected graves of long forgotten soldiers.
Life is in the brain. Regardless of pause or pandemonium outside of us, we live so long as the pink/grey flesh and the synapses dance merry pranksters jigs and reels. The more my health restricts more demanding activities the more I cherish my whirlwind brain that whips up thoughts like dust made alive by a storm.
I fool myself that these ideas matter, that I am unique by virtue of not being somebody else. We’re just meatbags lost in thought, lost in time and space, lasting but a moment of the universe and blinking out to fall back to an endless cosmic food chain.
The silence of the city is somewhat maudlin this evening, it seems.