And May My Own Modest Light Be Street-Facing Too

Morning Thoughts #164

Walking Marlborough St at night, gaslit street lights serve up dark red brick. Finding another source of illumination, oh my, how I like glancing through windows that look back. And I don’t mean with eyes. A lamp, giving half-shadowy space to some stranger’s living room, a desk and bookshelf webbed with mood. For a moment, I can read a part of my soul by its light. Feeling is a kind of focus and something within me has slowed to sensitivity. I keep walking.

Oh street-facing old-fashioned lamp, I am a planet to your whispered sun. Remember: A whisper is never a whisper absolutely, it’s simply a question of distance. Like one dismissed during jury selection, my eyes opt out of sharing more. They know they’re already too informed with sight to feel the whole picture. I keep walking, delegating my vision to memory - and the fainter it gets the more overcome I am by the beauty of it all.