I love the way the sun’s last light seems to leak out on everything—molten gold.
It’s the same here, even as it is on the West Coast. For some reason, it gives me a twinge of hope. That coating of light on the world makes the promise of night with its elusive freedom.
The Ancient Greeks knew of this mysterious power in sunlight. In my dreams, I long to be draped in white, bronzed by daylight, and ravaged by starlit night.
But, instead, I look out the window from my comfortable seat to a world made ugly by violence and heat. That gilded sheen is only a façade for a life in the prisons we make for ourselves. My prison is fear, panic, sadness, duty.
I want to push out into the darkened night, fearless and feeling, unhindered, my prison doors unhinged. I want to move and sway in the rhythms of the night, sandals sticky with golden residue, laughing at the illusion of it all.