There is an otherness to walking at night, a beautiful detachment.
Down tunneled streets, stretching dark matching never-ending thoughts, full stops of light. When I walk at night I feel the weather, I feel the press of it around me acutely, the wind whirling, sending my thoughts out into the swallowing blackness. There is mindfulness and mindlessness- an appreciation of what the world around me is and an easing of the wash of thoughts and feelings that have been tumbling into each other. My dog pulling me along, following the white of her tail and the pitter patter of her paws, a sense of just walking, going forwards- anywhere, into the night. There is nowhere in particular to go, walking for walking sake, for the simple joy of being able to move and be in the world.
The smell of woodsmoke bearing down a heavy scent into my nose, fibres of woody-earthiness, breathing through me and into my imagination of cosy rooms, pulled up cushions and flickering, soft, fire. Glancing into passing cubes of light; shining frames holding picture upon picture of homes. My eyes pass over, again and again, one lounge after another and with each sweep of vision, there’s a small recognition and mental comfort in being a passing observer of the lives lived in a home. The glow of human comfort and contentment seeping into the blackness of the night outside.