The Street

A night's lucid dream

On certain nights I hear distant piano notes on the boulevard from some second floor apartment, but as I get closer and the music gets stronger and I'm certain I found the source, it moves away again and remains distant. Again I approach it and again it moves away, a sad soft melody of lament moving without real purpose. No one is out at this hour and the lights that drape the trees and the restaurants and shops illumine the street with a glow that imbues softness enough to make you believe it will always stay this night. I walk this street after the shops have closed and the people have gone to feel quiet permeating all the air, and revel in the hypnotic delight of my footsteps echoing through empty, mute space like a clocks' steady ticking. Here existence is tolerable.

  I count the hours as they go by, flagrantly, because the world has grown less tolerant of these quiet, dead hours and of those people who find solace in them. With the faint music floating towards me comes an image of myself as a ghost that has gained substance for this short time, only to become an illusion to a mechanical, ruthless world when light again gains its dominance. Frequenting this street, it has become a part indispensable and its pull is overwhelming. My stay will one night be infinite and those hours stretch beyond counting, with a vision of ghosts returning to life.