Reconnection

These are the kind of nights that my soul dreams of. The windows are open to a mild, warn-breezed, mid-sixties evening made of no sound other than the wind. Absolute silence streams through the shutters and settles upon my yellow-tinted sitting room. There is a fresh-lit smell of jasmine, and both cats are sleeping in boxes of clothes. The hiss-rush of cars, random, rare, dissipate upon impact. A gentle buzz hums from the processors. It is cool, fresh, open and promising.

Perhaps it is because I fasted yesterday that my head seems younger, less burrowed and more wide-eyed. But tonight I am thinking of pathways. One hundred days comes with a self-proclaimed moritorium on the past, and so there is only what next and what shall become of it and what is most important. On nights like this, it seems as if the universe is inhaling and rotation has stopped, all paused and settled, calm sands fall after the torrent.

I am a camel rider on the shores of a sea of dunes, pregnant moon spread over the horizon. I am a lighhouse keeper at the shoulders of waves, large grey bodies float in semi-circles, rings of oil on the surface mark their dive. I am a writer at a study while the night blows. I am something other than me, and yet more me than ever.