Sunday Scribblings: Night

Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again.

- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

I have a fantasy of running across rooftops in the dead of night.

I will jump from one to the other, lithe and light footed, illuminated only by the frosty glow of the moon.

I will be stealth and shadow. I will crouch on the tiles and flatten myself against the shingles, lest I be discovered.

If I am discovered I will simply stare at my intruder. For it will be him intruding on my world, my rooftops, my freedom.

I wonder if my flight across the rooftops of the world in the dead of night will see me running to something, or someone, or from something, or someone. Perhaps it will be both. A flight of fancy across the rooftops of the world, the past at my back, the present inside of me and the future in front of me.

I will be surefooted. If I trip or stumble, in the space of a human heart beat grace will catch me, set me on my feet and watch as I continue my flight.