| Still, Still |
[Dec. 8th, 2005|04:50 am]
rejectomorph
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There is a faint electric hum in the perfectly still air. If my ears would pivot like those of a cat, I could discern the exact direction of the source, which seems to change as I move about the front yard. Perhaps it has no single source, though. It might be the collective hum of furnace fans near and far, keeping the dark houses warm. The moon which slightly paled the clouds earlier has set, and little can now be seen but vague shapes. Here and there, a window is palely lit behind a shade or drape, and a corner of one house is revealed by a few Christmas lights which were not extinguished. The wall of a shed is illuminated by a backyard light at a house on the next street over. Aside from that, my own glowing window is the brightest spot in sight.
Other than the electric hum, the loudest sound is my breathing. Soon, the early commuters will begin to pass along nearby roads, disturbing the serenity. For now, I can walk the wet pavement and hear my footsteps clearly. The air holds a very thin fog, less seen than scented, which I augment with each exhalation. Despite the damp, I hear nothing drip. Somehow, it doesn't seem quite as cold tonight. The cloud cover has wrapped us and kept us, if not exactly warm, at least unfrozen. Though time seems to pass slowly, it is not slow enough for me. I could spend weeks of nights such as this and not grow tired of them. I have the feeling, if I walked long enough through this placid world, that through the agencies of my patience and the night's calm, I would come to experience some profound revelation. I know this to be an illusion, but it is as pleasant as the the transient atmosphere which induced it. |
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