I sit cross-legged at my window, staring
through the glass and into the night. The houses are ghosts, eerily lit by the
warm glow of the streetlamps. The light overflows from its source, spilling
onto the street, giving it a depthless effect. The unforgiving wood of the wall
behind me digs into the side of my back. I sense my own shadow in the
transparency of the window. The lit-up screen of my monitor is now a bright
reflection hanging from the modest leaves of our tree in the front yard.
I follow the light back to my actual
monitor with my eyes, then get up and relocate to my battered desk chair. The music,
so familiar, soothing, and beautiful, fills my ears. I breathe through my nose
and sense the freshness of the air after the rain, although my allergies have completely
masked my perception of scent. The fluorescence of the screen gives an electric
look to the room.
From the door the lit computer monitor
stands out against the cool ocean hues of the walls, and the street lamps’
illumination stands out beyond my bedroom windows. The song is heartbreaking,
now, and the lilt of Marketa Irglova’s voice is hauntingly melancholy but still
beautiful. The floor is only half-visible under the mess of discarded clothes
and papers. My dog lies under the glass desk and rests with her ears perked up.
She is in no doubt listening to the music.
I lie sideways on the ground, resting my
head gently on my dearest sister dog Penny, her soft fur against my cheek. This
perspective is different than all other vantages. The song is now Coldplay, and
we are six inches away from the speakers, and it is as if we are inside the
music. My head rises and falls with the slight movement of Penny’s chest as she
breathes steadily, in and out. The sound of her breathing becomes the beating
of her heart. I am on the brink of dreams. The room fades into darkness as my
monitor powers off, and the music continues as we fall asleep.
