Sunlight

pulls back from London streets like a wave washed back into the sea ready to recharge again for its foray tomorrow morning. Night creeps in like a black cat which moves in front of a light turning the room into shadow. The familiar become the strange and the known, sinister and looming. Voices echo down the street outside, as I type, alone in my darkening room, alone in my mind, tripping over the shadowy words that trail, like footprints on the page.

Only the touch of my fingers on the keys, my elbows resting on the table, and the occasional blink remind me that I am feeling, sentient, sensing and yet, insensible...

Alone, but not lonely, in dusk, but not dark, I write my story on a screen. Do words live? I see spirals of words wrapped around my body like a coat, my childish stumblings playing like kittens at my feet, and words, like Medusa's tendrils curve and twist around my limbs. We are what we say, we are what we write, and we are what we leave behind.

Minerva