“There’s magic in you. Well, really there’s magic everywhere. It’s in the trees swaying in the wind. In the clockwork dance of traffic lights. In the bustle of the streets. In the connections between people. Life creates magic. All kinds of it. It’s wonderful. It’s beautiful.“
“But is it dangerous?” she asked.
“Everything can be dangerous.”
Conversations between characters in my head…
Nights like this I wonder where the moon has gone. You’ve been my traveling companion on so many of these sleepless nights. But tonight you’ve gone. So today all I have are the shadows, thick and pooling everywhere I look.
The cold bites at me. Not bitter, but just enough to be harsh. The shadows jeer. Do I listen to them? Do I talk back? What would I say? Well, of course they hear everything I say to myself.
Mocked and encouraged. Teased and stoked. They rip me both ways. Tearing me apart. Prodding me forward.
But honestly, I’m alone.
The shadows, so incorporeal, offer no more comfort than these empty city streets.
As always, the street lamps never fade. Flicker and hum, they stand sentinel. Guiding me….to wherever I end up.
And so I guess I’ll wander. Forever a Child of the Night.
Autumn evenings are wonderful.They have just a hint of magic. That subtle chill that creeps in. Just right with a slight breeze. A mist rolling in. Echoes of October’s mischief right around the bend. Walking these streets I want to pull the Neon from the tubes. Feel it dance along my fingertips. I want to feel the electric angels.
Even in this dead hour, the lights buzz on. The people slumber, but the city’s magic lives on. Traffic lights burn a never-ending rhythm, the flashing red hand a warning. Sodium vapour hums in its ever watchful gaze. Soldiers at the ready. I am the only living soul they see.
Bricks and signs and windows and doors and benches and symbols. Symbols everywhere. All things we pass by with such cursory attention in the day.
But now I just want to watch. To listen. To feel. I’m an observer in this world. But it all means something. There’s an odd sort of magic to it all. It’s all a semblance of life.
It’s funny what we gloss over when we hurry along. What other stories are hidden on these streets?
We are the embers. Billions of tiny sparks, ignited by our passions, we are sent out into the sky.
Don’t burn out. Catch your world on fire. Set it ablaze. Don’t go quietly into the night. Your spark matters. Your fire is beautiful. Let your passion burn.
Empty streets hold a certain sort of magic. Like tiptoeing on the verge between worlds. One foot where you’ve always been.
One foot beyond.
I revel in the dark. It’s when I feel most alive.
Simply myself and the shadows, dancing from one pool of orange sodium vapour glow to another.
Yet I feel like that’s who I am. Perhaps just a piece.
So many pieces that nobody knows.
Do those secrets belong anywhere but inside me?
There’s a beauty in it all. A twisted sort of magic. A haunting tale. And one day it will be. Little bits of eldritch lore woven into a tapestry so finely that none will ever know. Because nobody knows that story. So they must be spun into their own tales.
Breathing in the darkness is such a different dance than walking in the sun.
But I suppose, in the end, we all have our secrets. We all have our darkness.
And our light. Right?