At midnight, the clouds fold in gently over the city, settling down in a steady mist.
The lights are dulled over the hills. Surely, this is done in reverence of those who are dreaming. They do this peacefully, fitfully, sometimes even without having to sleep at all.
Maybe if you listen closely enough, you’ll hear everyone breathe in one cacophonous breath shared by many fractured bodies. It is our great irony to live in vast colonies dreamt up into space and still pass the midnight mark, in essence, alone. But there is a special kind of darkness where this does not matter. There, all that matters is the banal fact of breath.
What lies at the other end of bare existence?
Someone asked me what I think it means to exist and if I had to respond with urgency, I’d still say I wouldn’t know. But I hope the answer lies in that slippery place between living and dreaming: the raw stuff of creation which is our burden to carry.
On better days, I like to imagine existence as that spark you feel when a possibility comes to life in your mind.
Doesn’t matter what you do with it. Doesn’t matter what you leave behind.
The fact is that you were there, in that point in time, almost fully convinced that all this might merit something more than the raw necessities of survival.
Although we stumble into the world by haphazard fates, it is in those acts of dreaming that we reclaim what it means to be alive.