I Write Stuff
It's dark. Unbelievably so. Who would've guessed candlelight wasn't such a great way to illuminate a room, especially when a chilling draft seeps in from the open window, making the flames quiver and shiver, casting a few silhouettes across the striped gray walls. Carefree, graceful, soothing. A sudden gust of wind extinguishes the already weak flickers of the candles. Even they have a story to tell. Found them a while ago whilst cleaning the garden sheds. They emanate this sort of musty, almost earthy scent of old newspapers and mouldy books. I love that smell. I fumble around for the matches. Turns out, it's rather difficult to see in pitch-black darkness. Ah, there they are...
It's a lovely night. I strike a match and relight the candles. I take a peek out the window. The wind's whistling through the empty cobblestone street, older than dirt itself. Towering pine trees sway from side to side, leaves rustle about on the pavement, the pitter-patter of rain fills the air. Not a single car, not a single soul, not even a single dog barking - something extremely unusual in these parts. All is quiet. So utterly peaceful.
Darkness envelops the treetops and the sky glows only faintly. I can barely make out the moon from behind the incredibly thick layer of clouds and fog. Autumn's been waiting long enough and it's finally her time to shine. Many leaves are already changing their colours. Some have even turned a deep purple-ish hue, only adding to the already wide array of tones that autumn brings with it.
The dim streetlights only barely illuminate the pavement below, leaving shadows in their wake. Playful, wondrous shadows. I could stare at them for hours, just watching them dance in the evening breeze. The chestnut tree right next to the fence gate is now almost bare. It always lays down its leaves before any of its neighbours. Some still cling to the now barren branches. I notice a squirrel running along the electricity lines. What's a squirrel doing up so late at night, anyway? I wonder where it's going... The rain has stopped now, sadly. Everything is silent once more. Large puddles have formed around the cobblestones, reflecting the streetlights and falling leaves.
I walk around the house a bit, being careful not to accidentally put out the candlelight again. It's strangely calm. I look upon the back yard and its many flowerbeds. I can see nothing but the silhouettes of junipers and the old bird-cherry right next to the shed. Well, those and the lovely rowan tree that spreads its branches along the window sills. I pick a few fruits and head back to my room. Nice things, these rowan fruit. They taste a bit like cranberries - great pick-me-ups on sleepless nights like these.
The wind's picking up speed. The trees are swaying more and more and leaves are being flung very high into the air. I think a storm is coming. I hope so. For some reason I just love storms. I have no idea why, but I do. The feeling of the cold wind pushing its way through clothing and throwing you about whilst the rain beats down upon your face - it's almost intoxicating. I'd love to live by the sea one day...
I sit down on the ground. The wooden floorboards creak a bit, but soon enough they accept their fate and stay silent once more. I put my ear up against the wall to hear the house breathing. Creaks, rattles, groans of decades-old timber and stone. The house is getting old and it knows it. It's been almost a century now. I feel sorry for the old bugger. Lived through the two Great Wars and many other tragedies without as much as a single hiccup. Time is relentless.
The dog rouses from its sleep to get a few mouthfuls of water, just to fall back down right next to the bowl. Its fur is still a bit grimy from all the mud it rolled in yesterday. Tried to wash the feisty dingus, but it didn't help much, what with him running all over the bathroom and such. I pet him for a bit and with a loud, yet satisfied sigh, he closes his weary eyes. Again, I decide to take a look out the window. Even the freezing air cannot stop some sort of warmth spreading throughout me.
I begin to think (a miracle, I know). I think of silly things, of things much too serious. Of sad things, of happy things. Of times that were before, of times to come. Of the world, of what goes on beyond its borders. I think of this and of that, of why and of how. The last few breaths of fresh air made me drowsy. Still, I continue thinking. I think of love, of hatred. Sadness, anger concentrated. Empty ravings, misbehavings, swift salvations, quick cessations, deeds I've done, things long gone. Most importantly, I think of that same old cobblestone street. Of home.
It's a lovely night. I strike a match and relight the candles. I take a peek out the window. The wind's whistling through the empty cobblestone street, older than dirt itself. Towering pine trees sway from side to side, leaves rustle about on the pavement, the pitter-patter of rain fills the air. Not a single car, not a single soul, not even a single dog barking - something extremely unusual in these parts. All is quiet. So utterly peaceful.
Darkness envelops the treetops and the sky glows only faintly. I can barely make out the moon from behind the incredibly thick layer of clouds and fog. Autumn's been waiting long enough and it's finally her time to shine. Many leaves are already changing their colours. Some have even turned a deep purple-ish hue, only adding to the already wide array of tones that autumn brings with it.
The dim streetlights only barely illuminate the pavement below, leaving shadows in their wake. Playful, wondrous shadows. I could stare at them for hours, just watching them dance in the evening breeze. The chestnut tree right next to the fence gate is now almost bare. It always lays down its leaves before any of its neighbours. Some still cling to the now barren branches. I notice a squirrel running along the electricity lines. What's a squirrel doing up so late at night, anyway? I wonder where it's going... The rain has stopped now, sadly. Everything is silent once more. Large puddles have formed around the cobblestones, reflecting the streetlights and falling leaves.
I walk around the house a bit, being careful not to accidentally put out the candlelight again. It's strangely calm. I look upon the back yard and its many flowerbeds. I can see nothing but the silhouettes of junipers and the old bird-cherry right next to the shed. Well, those and the lovely rowan tree that spreads its branches along the window sills. I pick a few fruits and head back to my room. Nice things, these rowan fruit. They taste a bit like cranberries - great pick-me-ups on sleepless nights like these.
The wind's picking up speed. The trees are swaying more and more and leaves are being flung very high into the air. I think a storm is coming. I hope so. For some reason I just love storms. I have no idea why, but I do. The feeling of the cold wind pushing its way through clothing and throwing you about whilst the rain beats down upon your face - it's almost intoxicating. I'd love to live by the sea one day...
I sit down on the ground. The wooden floorboards creak a bit, but soon enough they accept their fate and stay silent once more. I put my ear up against the wall to hear the house breathing. Creaks, rattles, groans of decades-old timber and stone. The house is getting old and it knows it. It's been almost a century now. I feel sorry for the old bugger. Lived through the two Great Wars and many other tragedies without as much as a single hiccup. Time is relentless.
The dog rouses from its sleep to get a few mouthfuls of water, just to fall back down right next to the bowl. Its fur is still a bit grimy from all the mud it rolled in yesterday. Tried to wash the feisty dingus, but it didn't help much, what with him running all over the bathroom and such. I pet him for a bit and with a loud, yet satisfied sigh, he closes his weary eyes. Again, I decide to take a look out the window. Even the freezing air cannot stop some sort of warmth spreading throughout me.
I begin to think (a miracle, I know). I think of silly things, of things much too serious. Of sad things, of happy things. Of times that were before, of times to come. Of the world, of what goes on beyond its borders. I think of this and of that, of why and of how. The last few breaths of fresh air made me drowsy. Still, I continue thinking. I think of love, of hatred. Sadness, anger concentrated. Empty ravings, misbehavings, swift salvations, quick cessations, deeds I've done, things long gone. Most importantly, I think of that same old cobblestone street. Of home.
