#oneaday, Day 603: Midnight

The night-time was always the most difficult. It was in the dark of the night that the pain worsened, mentally and physically. Often she chose to forgo sleep in the twilight hours and rest during the daytime — it was not as if she led an especially active, social life, after all, and the sunlight kept the demons at bay.

Tonight was bad. Her whole body ached, and her mind throbbed with panic, frustration and fear. The worst part of it was that she couldn’t reach the bottom of it — every time she felt like getting closer to some sort of explanation, it darted out of reach, just around a corner, like a mischievous gremlin determined to prolong her suffering for as long as possible.

While her body was old and broken and her waking mind often clouded with thoughts that should not be, her imagination was still as lithe and agile as a gymnast, and it was with this she often kept the pain away long enough to see the sun rise from behind the houses across the way.

So it was once again tonight. She sat in the chair she always took, positioned next to the window, at a slight angle so she could lean her elbow on the windowsill and look out without putting too much strain on her frail bones. The light of the moon was bright tonight, and illuminated the garden with an eerie glow that brought to mind images of ethereal spirits darting around, just out of eyeshot, constantly avoiding the curious gazes of those few who did not succumb to sleep during these peaceful hours.

She knew this was not really the case, of course, but for the majority of the time, the fantasy was far more appealing than the reality. Rather than picturing sinister, malevolent spirits, to her these were peaceful, tranquil spirits of nature, keeping a watchful eye on the world as its supposed masters slumbered. They knew that their job was futile, that mankind had already changed the world beyond recognition, but still they flitted to and fro, making their adjustments here and there. She stared through the window, picturing their machinations in her mind’s eye, not even blinking.

As she gazed into the garden, the images became more vivid, and suddenly she was among them. She couldn’t tell if she was still in her body or if she had taken on the translucent, ethereal, almost-invisible form of the spirits, and she didn’t care. She flitted around the garden as delicately as a fairy, glancing at the leaves on a bush here, the petals on a flower there. The freedom of flight was liberating, exhilarating, and soon enough she shot up into the air, leaving her erstwhile companions below in the garden.

From high in the sky, the rows of tiny houses all looked identical. She was hard-pushed to identify her own, but she felt she had it, and swooped down towards the ground in a vertical dive to prove herself right. She giggled in delight at the feeling of the air sweeping past her face, something — her hair? Her clothes? It didn’t matter — billowing out behind her. She pulled herself up sharply just before hitting the ground and looked up to see the familiar sight of her own back garden — the wobbly clothesline pole, the unkempt bushes, the lawn that was several inches too long (when was that nice boy coming back to fix it again?) and the solitary light in the upstairs window.

She gazed up at the window where she had left herself, a low light glowing providing just the faint indication of a presence, but not enough to see the figure she thought she would see gazing into the garden.

Then she was flying again, forward this time, at incredible speed. She skimmed the rooftops of she didn’t know how many houses — one, two, a thousand? — until civilisation stopped and the rolling hills of the countryside began.

Out here was peace and quiet and solitude, but not the lonely kind. The full moon bathed the landscape in its soft, cold light and she felt that she was alone, but for once she was at peace. She came to rest atop a small, natural but aesthetically pleasing arrangement of rocks, and sat. The longer she sat, the more she felt a growing number of presences surrounding her. But this was not threatening — there was nothing in the hearts of these spirits but peace and love, and they were accepting her as one of their own. She felt ethereal hands reach out and touch her, so soft and delicate that they might have been made of gossamer. And she let them envelop her with their feelings of peace and love, because here there was no pain in body or mind, only the soft, cool glow of the moon.

When morning came she watched from a distance as the men in the bright coats carried her out under a blanket and placed her in the back of the ambulance. On her doorstep was the kindly nurse who had been so good to her, shedding a few tears. She was sorry she hadn’t got to say goodbye to the few people left who cared, but that didn’t matter now. She was free, and no longer did the night hold anything to fear.

She was free.

#oneaday, Day 289: Autumn Days When The Grass Is Green

I can’t remember the last time I was as acutely aware of the arrival of autumn as I have been this year. Much of the weather of our green and pleasant land falls into the “grey and overcast” category, which is why the sun shining is usually a trigger for wide-ranging sensationalist journalism. “HEAT WAVE!!” “HOSEPIPE BAN!!” “TROPICAL TEMPERATURES!!” And of course, the inevitable knowing winks towards global warming.

Autumn, on the other hand, arrives with little to no fanfare. It gets a bit colder. Some people (usually at the elderly end of the spectrum) take this as a cue to say out loud things like “ooh, feels like Autumn’s here”. But there’s never sensationalist journalism. “TREEPOCALYPSE!!” “OMG LEAVES!!” “MILD HURRICANES SWEEP NATION!!” I don’t think so.

But during a long drive tonight, it was very apparent that autumn is indeed in full swing. The thing which means I can say this with absolute authority? The amount of leaves blowing around. They were everywhere, sweeping through the air like their own weird little weather system. Even the motorways, concrete slabs of greyness that are about as far from Mother Nature as you can get, had leaves swirling above them and fluttering across the road like a pixie dropping a large pile of correspondence.

This became even more pronounced once I hit the country lanes close to home. Leaves lined the roads, breaking up the monotonous greyness of the Tarmac surface with colourful patterns, swept up by cars as they sped by and tumbling back to the ground like a “wake” for the passing vehicles.

Perhaps it’s just that I spent the best part of ten years living in an urban environment where one season looks much like another. For the moment, I live in the countryside. So maybe I genuinely am seeing it more.

Whatever the cause, autumn is here. So wrap up warm, go outside and go jump in some piles of crisp, crunchy brown leaves.

#oneaday, Day 268: Through the Night

I took my first steps into the night. Coming from the brightness I’d left behind me, the inky blackness looked impenetrable, a solid wall of darkness into which I’d vanish, never to be heard from ever again, were I to take one step further forward.

I took a step forward, and I did not vanish. The light was still behind me but my eyes were gradually adjusting, focusing, bringing that which was hidden into view again.

I took out the small torch and lit it, the small pool of light it cast spilling onto the floor, concentric circles of light and shadow. There’s always a way through even the blackest darkness if you have even just a little light.

I stepped forward again, and again, and began walking into the darkness. I didn’t know where my feet were taking me save into the black of the night. But I was moving forward, ever onward, like it was the thing to do. It was important. This was all that mattered right now. I walked, sweeping the dim light of the torch in front of me and watching ill-defined shapes pass as the light caught them and I walked past.

“Run,” whispered a voice in my ear, and I obeyed. I quickened my pace, still holding the torch, still sweeping it around, not knowing where I was headed or where I would end up. But I was running. The ground was hard under my feet, the regular thump-thump-thump of my steps mingling with the quickening of my heart in a chorus of drums that only I was witness to.

The darkness closed in around me, and the pool of light showed me that I was surrounded by shadows, but they did not feel threatening. Rather, they encased me, enclosed me, kept me safe. And still I ran, ever forward. The hard ground gave way beneath my feet to loose stones and finally soft mud. I felt the occasional splash of a puddle, but I was already past it, ever moving onwards. Still moving, still pushing forwards. But to where?

A scent filled my nostrils, a natural smell; the smell of the woods, of trees and leaves. It infused my being with a sense of peace. Out here there was nothing to fear, nothing to hide from, nothing to run from. But still I ran, with a sense of purpose that became ever more urgent.

In the distance, a pinpoint of light. As I drew closer, it flickered, its warm glow drawing my eyes away from the dark and towards what I now knew to be my destination. Closer still, and I could see the gentle flames; a source of comfort, warmth and safety, a place to rest a while.

As I entered the clearing I felt the warmth of the fire on my face and smelled the sweet smoke. And then she was there too, looking at me, smiling, those eyes gazing deep into my soul.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, taking my hand.