Sunday, October 09, 2005
A moment later, there will be no light. But you don’t know that.
At first, you can only see the light. Then, you can see a little bit around it. The warm glow of the reflections filter in, muffled. You remember home. And the lights. The memories stream in, in rays. You run your hand over the frosted glass and create patterns that let you look back into your past. The residue clings to your fingers, but you let it pass. What is more important, is getting a clear picture and seeing where the light is coming from.
But you can’t.
Your side has been wiped clean. The burden is on your hands. But glass has two sides. And you don’t have control of the other facade. You can only see what she wants you to see. For now.
A moment later, there will be no light. And she too, doesn’t know that.