Winter Magic

So the story has never become a novel or reality. Practicality has won. It has won me over. And in the end dreams are where they belong: in my mind while I live the busy city life. Trains, tube, yellow lights, winter velvet pitch black darkness after 6. Twilight falls when I am still sitting behind a computer, inside a building on the 19th floor. The difference between in and out after 6 is the fluorescent lights all over, as far as my eyes can reach, light after light, and pitch black where I can barely feel my breathing—where it doesn’t matter whether my eyes are open or closed—where I hear an open wind instrument from the past, or from now, or whatever sound that brings me back to the present moment.

In the end the story doesn’t get to be written, or stays behind and makes me wonder whether it really happened... ten, twelve, how many years ago? Has it happened at all, or were all those people living characters from an nonexistent world? Ah the nonexistent world... outside my window with the trees, the mud, the moon, the wind, the night. We are apart. But we dance together sometimes when I close my eyes... and I count every freckle of your face... and I kiss each one of them... and you disappear like magic. Winter magic.