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August 13, 2006 / consciousness

What time or rather WHEN is it?

I want to start this story where other stories normally end: On the way home.

I sit on the train bound homewards. I say goodbye to my mates I’ll have the last 20 minutes of the ride for myself. I check the time, twenty past four. I get up and stand and walk to the next door, because I know if sit I’ll fall asleep and miss my stop.

I look out the window, not that there is much to see, for it’s still too dark to make out more than blurred shapes. People say, that at night all cats are grey, well it seems to me that they are all bathed in a blue tint and not in grey. The night lays a layer of thick ink over everything, dipping the world into a array of different blues and blacks, broken only by the occasional street lamp that tries to fight back the overwhelming darkness. It doesn’t succeed. The light it gives off doesn’t lighten up the darkness, it rather strengthens it where the weak sickly yellow beams can’t reach. Anyway it’s too dark outside to really take in much of what is passing me by. I look at my own reflection in the glass. My mind drifts and I fall through my own eyes into memories and swirling thoughts.

I drift through the passages of my mind treading on thoughts that float underneath me. I am drawn to a memory that wakes a hint of a smile on my face. I don’t know if I actually smile, but I feel like smiling. I happily warm myself on this memory.

I realize that I forgot to blink. I move my eyelids and notice that I have reached my station. Isn’t it funny that you can feel just when you have to do something even though your mind is somewhere else? I step onto the deserted platform. Half-past four. Only two other unclear shapes of dark-blue shadows move away, only to be swallowed in the inky night.

My legs carry me more by a self-driven longing for rest than by my will. I stumble down the stairs and off the platform. Guess I should have said “no” to that last round of whiskey. I realize that the night is vanishing around me. The dark blue is now replaced by a multitude of grey shades. I step onto the road and feel the drizzle of a cool rain on my face. Perfect.

As I stumble onwards I wonder where I am. Ok, I know where I am but I don’t know when I am. Where does one day merge into the next? The watch tells me that tomorrow has been around for close to five hours already, but I don’t feel like tomorrow. I still feel like today. Who ever said there was a one second border between now and tomorrow? Doesn’t it take an entire night for the old day to die and the new to be born? I look around me. Nothing is moving, except the rain which has by now soaked my hair and drips off my nose. Do you know what happens outside when you’re safely tucked into your bed and recharge your battery for the next day? It’s the same with that saying. If a tree falls over in a forest and nobody is there, how do you know it makes a sound?

At the moment I feel like I am witnessing the trees last stand. While you are sleeping I see the days colliding. It is not tomorrow yet and yesterday hasn’t gone completely. I am in the in-between place. Neither here nor there. But what do you call a place that isn’t dependent on your location in a geographical sense but rather bound to time? So the question is when am I?

Nothing happens while I let the rain trickle down my neck. Nothing moves, not even the newspaper stand at the corner seems alive. I am stuck between two times. The hands on my watch seem to slow down, a second stretches into eternity, while I wait for something. Anything. A proof that the next day has arrived. Nothing happens, except the rain that starts to soak through my shirt and the greys around me increase.

I step of the curve and walk across the deserted street to my flat. I climb the stairs, open the door and find myself sliding into my sheets and into sleep. Just as the last moments of wakefulness leave my mind I could swear that I can feel the presence of you next to me… but too quickly I am gone, drowned in the sea of sleep.

Stupid link of the day:

Graphologie: Handschriftdeutung online

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