Perfectly silent evening. I think of what today could have been as I drift in and out of sleep. I imagine the lake, still lit with the effervescent energy of the day, waving around us, beckoning. Crowds pass by the fair, sliding past each other, casually looking but noticing nothing. Sometimes a smile is offered, sometimes a shout is heard. The darkness falls deliberately and envelops all that is around. The stairs to the old town are steep and I am in no hurry. Somewhere in the distance, a waiter drops a tray of water and laughter roars. Deep inside a building a child screams just for a second and is quiet again.
Here in the old town, time moves slowly. It sits with dignity and aloofness away from the lake. Today, no young couple stop in the middle of the cobblestone streets to play violin. Today, nothing out of the ordinary happens. No glass shards rip the sole, no ice cream is spilled on the lap, no catastrophic event occurs around the block.
As I drift in and out of sleep, a vision awakens in me. A wasted song plays for no one and then dies. My vision is in sapia tones, my voice is from very far. Memory strains itself to recollect. How do you convert new experiences to old memories?
I wake up and realize that another day is over. The night may still be with me, but time is no friend of mine.
I imagine reading Jibananda Das or Bukoswki. I miss my iPOD. I imagine I am in one of those surprisingly trendy new bars in Rosalindale that appear pleasantly out of character. I can taste Tibetan food from Rangoon in Cambridge. In my mind, I hear the music from Die Fledermaus and Mefistofele over and again. I miss the voice of mezzo sporano Malena Erman singing in Italian with her Swedish accent.
I could be hiking up amidst the trees all around the blue hills, to rediscover the surprise of finding the Harvard observatory all the way at the top of the hill, I miss the ordinariness of everything, just so because it is so familiar.
Perhaps I must go back to sleep, perchance to dream.
