And for a second, I can see it. The darkness just before going to bed; the mid-nighttime before sunrise yet after moonset; it’s a darkness so overpowering, so overwhelming that it’s impossible to miss, to unsee, to unfeel. And I try to hold it in my hands.
Stepping on to my windowsill, the doorway to my new horizons, I reach out in an attempt to hold something so far so close. I stand on my tip-toes, wishing– praying— for some force to rise up and catch me, to carry me away into the unforgettable sunset that is the darkness to my light; I’m taken, then, by a sudden burst of wind. It travels along side me, almost like an old friend who I had never met, and yet have to, solemnly whispering the lyrics to songs unwritten.
I don’t usually mind the unknowable, the impossible– the unpossible– and yet at that very moment, I did. It bothered me that this imposter of air could so easily carry me out of my window as I reached for my dreams just as easily as it could take out the paper.
But then again, I’ve yet to forget the taste of the ground as it rushed upwards towards me. And it isn’t that tangible twilight, no; it’s that sweet smell as I went down, the blood in my mouth as I hit the ground, that saves me.