Posted in Creative Writing


The sickle moon played hide and seek tonight behind candyfloss clouds that swept across the dip-dyed indigo sky as if they had somewhere more important to be. That could be anywhere, really, if you ask me. For a fleeting moment, I had this childish dream that I could mount a magic carpet and follow along to see what all the fuss is about. But there are bars on my window – not to keep anyone out, but to keep me in.

I only have my four-walled-world and the pictures through my window frame to keep me company. There isn’t much to see when the sun comes up. It washes the world in lemon juice, tinting everything yellow and turning life sour.

But the city changes at night. All around, the windows light up like hundreds of television screens playing the omnibus of kaleidoscope lives. And I sit by the window, listening to the city grumble like and old man settling into his favourite chair after a hard day’s labour. He lights a pipe (I know that because the smoke rolls over devil’s peak) and laments all he’s seen today.

The air moves around us, through us, draws the emotion out of us. It searches, the way we’re all searching, for some purpose, something besides endless motion and the endless seeing of things that cannot be unseen.

I wonder if I could slip through these bars and move out onto the terrace? I wonder if I let the air surround me, would the city see right through me? Would I melt into the air and drift along these narrow streets or across the ink-stained sky. Maybe then I’d know where the clouds are in such a hurry to be.


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