1 year ago
Sunday, July 25, 2010
A room at the end of hall, past the Indian statue and the double doors, the walls all made of glass. Mismatched furniture reside in a haphazard semblance of disorder; a loveseat being the biggest item. It happens to also be the softest and most comfortable, so you sit cross-legged facing the east wall. The rest of the house is dark. The room is dark. The world would be dark but for the violent flashes of lightning that rip the sky every few seconds. Notebook on your lap, but no light with which to write. You might flick on the lamp, but the lightning would be diminished by the false illumination. So instead, you sit, waiting until you're too tired to watch or the show is over, whichever comes first. Maybe you sing softly to yourself in a haunting, fitting tune. Maybe you close your eyes and watch the now-orange lightning through the safety of your eyelids. Now, count the seconds between lightning and thunder. Now, create a myth about the mysterious lights flashing from the sky.
Maybe you do all of these things. Maybe none. Maybe you're home, not a rain cloud in sight. Maybe you pulled out your cell to blog about the electric storm going on right outside your glass house because to not seemed like a crime.
That's what I did.