A Writer On A December Night
Tags: Introspection, December, Fiction, Thoughts, Writers Life

The cold leaves small bites on my skin, not entirely uncomfortable as I walk down the busy street.

People pass, to someone nothing more than blurry faces, but to me they are unopened storybooks, tales yet to be discovered.

I memorize each face that passes me and they unknowingly become characters of my own design, honored in works they might never read, I might not ever write.

I lose myself in the eyes and the smiles, the solemn expressions and passing conversations, forgetting for a moment that I’m walking, tripping on the laces of my boots.

I hear a distant chuckle and I laugh as well.

Time seems to slow as I carry on through the sea of people and I feel as though the gorund has shifted beneath my feet, swaying and rippling until it disappears and I’m left floating, swimming through the faces and the voices, lost in the crisp evening air.

Their eyes are glued to their phones or to eachother, none of them paying attention to me and it is in that moment I realise I’m not truly there and neither are they.

I’m merely a character, walking through a busy street, writing my own narrative and so are all these masks around me, none of them caring about anything other than the inner monologue their thoughts are creating, each in their own intricate handwriting.

Emersed in my caligraphy of apprehensions and beliefs, I carry on walking.

The air smells of snow.

I wrap my coat tighter around my body, scanning the caffes and the shops for a place to warm myself up.

Then I spot it and smile as I wrap my gloved hand around the damp cold handle.

The library.

Warmth kisses my skin, caressing my frost-bitten cheeks lovingly and my smile widens.

I roam between the shelves, relishing in the smell of paper and the feel of it when it rustles between my fingers as I flip through the pages of book after book, holding on to those that call to me.

Once my hands become to small for the pile of books in them, I carry them to the register.

The clerk smiles at me politely and I return the gesture, asking her about her day.

I note the details of her life, the miniature changes in her expression as she talks about what she had done that day.

I pay for my books and bid her goodbye, exiting the warm library in a cloud of my own breath.

I find my place in the complex machine of people, bikes and cars, moving with them in a wave of stories and worlds, each cog in the mechanism unaware of their contributions.

I wait for a short moment before a tram arrives and I climb in.

The air is stifling, warmed by yawns, exhasparated breaths and tired sighs.

As the tram starts to move, I sway in sync with the bodies around me, watching the city pass us by through the foggy window.

The buildings blur together with the violet skyline, merging with the cars that rush past and the people walking by.

The tram soon comes to a stop and I step off, letting the myriad of people disperce around me.

I cross the bridge.

The river is wild beneath my feet and I wonder what it would be like to fall into its icy waters.

I can’t chase away the image of the bridge crumbling and falling into the river with a loud splash, I can’t stop imagining the freezing waves hugging my body, squeezing it in their deathly grip.

I make a note of the image, of the feeling of my body going numb and my breath escaping my lungs as I am pulled under the murky water.

I’m home before I know it, pushing the key into the lock and hearing the familiar click as I push the door forward.

My lips strech into a calm sated smile as the smell of the hallway washes over me and the warmth reddens my cold cheeks.

I turn on the light in my room and, changing into my pajamas, curl up under the covers with one of the books I’d bought, opening it with wide curious eyes, excitedly waiting for the story to unfold.

The light flickers occassionaly and I can hear people talking outside my window.

It’s warm and the covers are soft and it takes only half an hour before I get tired, lulled by the comfort of familiarity and safety.

So I turn the lights off and cuddle up to my pillow, thinking about the day I’d had and how different it had felt to be out in the cold streets from laying in a warm bed with the familiar sounds of my building.

Slowly, I drift off to sleep, the story I had just read, the story of the clerk and the passing conversations all merge and unfold before my eyes in a hazy dream.

Perhaps I’ll write about it someday.