And then before my eyes, something wonderful and blue and shapeless danced across the ceiling, and I looked around, and out the window.

We were passing by some town, made only of short, one-or-two-story houses and shops, and none of the tall buildings that dominate the world of today, or the place I'd call home. The streets were desolate, of any cars, or any people, and nothing else in the whole wide world existed besides that little room, and those street corners outside, and the lampposts upon them. The lampposts, those were it. The light, coming in, onto the walls, onto the other beds below, onto me. Not warm, and yellow. Not even blank white. It was just cold. Blue. Freckled, accented, stained, by specks of dirt and grime on the glass.
I'm not sure why, but it was beautiful to me, unlike anything I'd ever seen. The tiredness in my body melted away into the air around, and I sat up straighter in the bed, back against the wall. Watching. Sometimes, directly at the window, and the dark outside the lights came from. Other times, to the walls inside, and the shadows of light fading in on the opposite wall, then rapidly swimming across the ceiling to me, and then slowly fading away on my side of the room. I should have been sleeping, but for the moment, my soul wanted nothing but to stay up all night, and just see it all. It was inconceivable that I would miss one passing lamppost, that I would miss a second of the fluttering blue lights.

And, at the same time, I imagined a different scenario. Me out there on those streets, in the middle of nowhere. With nothing, no phone, no money to my name, just myself, and some clothes to keep me warm. Standing there, beside the lamppost, watching the train noisily rumble by, and leave me behind, as it rushed away to the horizon. And the sun was never going to rise, and the people were never going to wake up, and I was just there, alone. Like a wave in the sea, like a dandelion seed floating away through a field, with no limits beside how far my legs could take me before they gave out, free of any obligation to anyone, or any home to return to. And without any importance, or significace, or legacy.
And I could just walk around, aimlessly, and knock on people's doors, and perhaps they wouldn't even wake up from their temporary death. Or perhaps, they would. Somehow, from their bed upstairs, they can hear me noiselessly running my fingers across the front door. And they'd drowsily amble their way down the stairs, and jangle their keys as they unlock the door, and see me standing there, on their doorstep. And they'd say nothing as I peacefully walked in, and looked around, through their hall, and their clean kitchen, where they eat their breakfasts, and produce the sustenance that gives them life force, every day of their lives, and I only get to see it once in mine. I'd take it all in. And then, I'd make my way back out, and the stranger would watch me disappear into the fog. And when the morning came, they'll have forgotten about me, and they'll have never woken up that night, to open any doors for any ghosts. Leaving me to walk to the edge of the city, where there's a field of grass. And I'd walk through it, growing famished, until there was no energy left in me to walk any more. And I could lay down, in the green, and stare up at the sky.

 

And I was still awake.