The light is fading as I write this. It is only 4PM and I am here, wrapped in blankets and the comfort of my old bedroom. No one is here and the house sounds lonely; sleeping away the hours until it's threshold is crossed once again by familiar feet and lights are turned on, illuminating rooms, warming things up again with life.
A bed, not my old bed here in my parents house, points towards the window. A window that frames a piece of the world for me, one where I have watched the seasons change for many years. Today I can see the sky; it is a beautiful bruised blue, dark and dreary and resting like a blanket over the houses and people below. Under the darkening sky colors seem brighter. A garage door down the street is a bright robin's egg blue; the grass is still far too green for mid-November, as if it is trying to hold on to a last semblance of summer. Numerous trees reach their bare branches towards the sky, seeking a blanket of snow to cover them in their slumber.
There is an unexpected orange hue to everything. The sun is trying to punch its way through the thick cloud cover. It admits defeat and retreats, allowing darkness to descend, heavy. A dampness has set in, confusing bodies into being too warm on the surface but cold inside their bones. Nothing stirs, the only knowledge of a breeze from a discarded spider web, laden with leaves and sticks, blowing it's weighted silk in the Autumn air.
Cold will soon find it's way into this evening. It will wrap the darkness in it's frigid arms and squeeze the warmth of the day out of it. And I might still be here, engulfed in many blankets, staring out the window at this dark piece of the world.
