b ~ Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets

 

The sky is still dark when you wake, a few stars twinkling in the sky.
The beautiful idea you had been courting last night finally came to
you in a platinum colored dream, though as slippery and elusive as an
eel. You grab on tight and make your way to the desk where everything
is as you left it writing into the wee hours.

There is nothing but the writing and you, trying to get it all down.
No editing, no revising, just standing in the river of fast-rushing
words. Holding on to whatever passes by in this sea of thoughts.

Eventually your hunger nudges you, it cares not for beauty or grammar
one whit. You grab a coat, wrap a scarf round  and make you way to the
door, imagining all that lies beyond. The adventure. The pastries.
Instead you wake the sleeping form hidden under a mound of blankets,
who thankfully stirs and begins to put on last night’s clothes without
question.

You step out into the city–your city– surrounded by the hush. The
first traces of light peeking into the sky. In front of you seems to
be a black and white photograph taken from the pages of a book of the
old master’s works that you have pored over relentlessly. All street
and structure, careful composition, entrances and alleyways. This is
nothing like home. Yet you are feeling more at home than you ever
thought was possible. A deep seated connection to place. The hand in
yours is firm and strong like a souvenir of another land, of beach
walks and amusement park rides. Here there is pavement, brick and
stone forming the path, your nose leads you forward.

Soon there will be there will be sugar laced plates, the last dregs of
coffee, tea leaves lining the bottom of the cup. You do not need a
fortune teller to predict your future. The day stretches out before
you. And for now you are the only inhabitants of this magical land.

Littered along the streets and sidewalks there are remnants from last
night’s activity.You wonder who could have left such things behind.
Then you realize that one person’s discard is another’s inspiration.
Yet cities are known for not sleeping for here you are awake and
wandering, your loved one by your side. The sun having secretly and
without fanfare arrived in the sky, not yet beaming. But inside you
are, for everything you have ever wanted seems within your reach.

~b

About andi

Writer, editor, wrangler of small boys and dogs.

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