Night is not only composed of the colour black. Where the gilt light of the street lamp can touch, with his imperceptible hands, it turns golden. Flecks of iron appear in the sky, and the moon, the mere reflection she is, casts her willowy, milky gaze across the stone and tiles. The darkness is much like a grey day. As the grey day allows the heart to appreciate the golden one, the darkness, rather than consuming the light, only succeeds in emphasizing the luminescence with which it is faced. The brightness is compassionate. The dull brown brick of the alleyways is not. The mysterious light that the traffic lights exude, in all their rich colours, dance on the seemingly liquid tarmac. Sometimes, the night is more vivid than light. I am glad of that.
I was dragged away from my contemplative state by the fluorescent yellow which emerged from the eyes of an approaching jet black, metal beast. I looked up to the stars again, knowing that the silver façade they wore obscured me from the swirling scarlets and opulent oranges they should be.
The night sky, I concluded inwardly, is facing an identity crisis.
The metal casing of the flasks continually kissed each other so loudly, it was to the point of crescendo. They kept the pace at which I walked and the soup they contained, like the sea, flowed in waves of peaks and troughs.
I passed by a shop window, and took in the sight of my own mask, as it stared back at me with the pair of emotionless, miniature Granny-Smiths it had cloned. To look at a reflection, and gaze at its eyes, is a strange thing. It makes me forget which one of us is tangible, and which one is simply the reflection.
Having walked away from this personal paradox, I met another pair of eyes, deep blue, and smiling.
They were familiar.