Tonight I took the liberty of walking home, because walking is more freeing than any other means of transportation.
...Except maybe for a car, on a far stretching highway, blasting the radio over its speakers.
Anyway, travel by feet makes me feel more wonderous than to bike straight to my porch.
I found myself hovering on the sweet thought of roaring twenties and charleston. I had just watched the Great Gatsby and I was still dazzlled by the amounts of liqour, glitters and gentlemen.
It made my walking through the empty streets, in my jeans and vest, unreal. Rebeliously I decided to walk in the middle of the road, dragging my bike along.
The night was quiet and I shivered as I inhaled deeply through my nose and cold air filled my lungs.
The street was mine, and so was the dark that hid the stars behind a thick velvet curtain.
I once described the night as a thick blanket. And I remember shakespear writing the night had a long black cloak. I suppose those two percaptions originate from the same sensation: the night conceals.
It can hush up voices, dim all lights and allow the things broad daylight scares away.
I was hidden there, too, in the creases of night's cloak.
Walking home, for a moment no one saw me, no one missed me, and no one accompanied me. A rare, absolute freedom Ive come to love.
Yet it may never last long, because it was only one block away.
However, after I placed my bike in the garage, instead of going inside I walked back out. In the middle of the street I stopped and looked up. All I saw was dark, so I closed my eyes and I listened.
Listened.
To the rustling leafs.
Breath in.
The krickets in the bushes.
Breath out.
The car racing down the mainstreet nearby
I just wanted one more taste, of not having to be or to go anywhere. But there's this little voice inside that keeps nagging to 'just go inside', 'go to bed,' 'there's stuff to do tommorow', 'What business have you here?'. And so I went.
But someday, I will hush up that voice like night's cloak.
Eat the fruits of the night.
Pit my lips to the bottle of freedom.
This was Roux, signing in for the nightly report.
Over and out.
...Except maybe for a car, on a far stretching highway, blasting the radio over its speakers.
Anyway, travel by feet makes me feel more wonderous than to bike straight to my porch.
I found myself hovering on the sweet thought of roaring twenties and charleston. I had just watched the Great Gatsby and I was still dazzlled by the amounts of liqour, glitters and gentlemen.
It made my walking through the empty streets, in my jeans and vest, unreal. Rebeliously I decided to walk in the middle of the road, dragging my bike along.
The night was quiet and I shivered as I inhaled deeply through my nose and cold air filled my lungs.
The street was mine, and so was the dark that hid the stars behind a thick velvet curtain.
I once described the night as a thick blanket. And I remember shakespear writing the night had a long black cloak. I suppose those two percaptions originate from the same sensation: the night conceals.
It can hush up voices, dim all lights and allow the things broad daylight scares away.
I was hidden there, too, in the creases of night's cloak.
Walking home, for a moment no one saw me, no one missed me, and no one accompanied me. A rare, absolute freedom Ive come to love.
Yet it may never last long, because it was only one block away.
However, after I placed my bike in the garage, instead of going inside I walked back out. In the middle of the street I stopped and looked up. All I saw was dark, so I closed my eyes and I listened.
Listened.
To the rustling leafs.
Breath in.
The krickets in the bushes.
Breath out.
The car racing down the mainstreet nearby
I just wanted one more taste, of not having to be or to go anywhere. But there's this little voice inside that keeps nagging to 'just go inside', 'go to bed,' 'there's stuff to do tommorow', 'What business have you here?'. And so I went.
But someday, I will hush up that voice like night's cloak.
Eat the fruits of the night.
Pit my lips to the bottle of freedom.
This was Roux, signing in for the nightly report.
Over and out.