In the twilight, caught like a bird, my shadow is a cat on the prowl. My feet, in fake leather boots, dragging through the mush of the street after a day of rain and mud, having been moved, pushed and shoved about, low slurping and sucking noises as I move my knees. Joints creaking like old voices, but I'm deaf. My ears are only picking up on the silence in the room facing my spine, somewhere, picking up on all the signals that have always been there. My eyes are ticking away in my face, fluttering fast. There's mud on my coat, and I'm not going to bother about that.
They say the last fall will go unnoticed. And the feel of the random wording on the edge of my mattress when I cannot sleep and sit still with my blanket drawn up to my chest, arms folded. This doesn't happen anymore, you guessed that right. And when I walk through streets, I'm not made to be lost, not made to be a fool. I walk steadily, head a little higher, calm to remember how to breathe. Silver sings against my ears, intricate little threads and mirrors of metal hanging on a hook, pierced flesh.
I can hear myself now, I just don't bother.
I am superimposing on life, tipping scales like fate's hands because it's what I should do for once. Partaking more realistically, joining in on the humming of moving bodies, moving hands. Greeting others politely and openly.
I fall silent, listening.
The mush about my boots is gurgling away, happily or not. There was an essence to my direction in these shortcuts, narrow streets, past dimly lit homes. A place I wanted to reach, somewhere. I am imposing on memories not my own, footsteps I didn't make, retracing unknown lines in the dark so I can follow them blindly. Utilizing any sort of sense I have to be acutely aware.
Deep in me, the automatic workings of a diligent mind are set aside for a slow, warm motion. Wisdom uncanny, laced with gentle fingertips. I have been a listener for so long; I will be one for a little longer.
Is this ok with you?