Tiptoeing Nights

walking

Walking in a city in the deep night not knowing anybody is immense freedom. Descending chill and a wind that makes me cover up, I stroll past friends who laugh, lovers who kiss and children who play. It's a funny feeling. Of being a witness to the city's actors. The blue sky ceases to exist and the humans come to the centre stage. A few hours before before night fell, the sky put on a show. Gigantic clouds performed a miracle of light and wonder. "Look at me" it called out. One had to pause and stare. It wouldn't let me walk by. I marvelled at the light. Is this heaven?

Another night, and there's fireworks. One at the corner of the street. A few more as I walk down by. The pets shiver at the noise, and hide between their owner's legs. They embrace as if parent and child. I grab a cup of chocolate that's too hot for my tongue. I blow through the small sipping hole in hopes of it cooling down. After five long minutes, I take a carefully measured sip. The sweet sears my tongue. It's wonderfully comforting though.

There's music and giants. Couples who dance in repeated moments, around each other. They move closer and then farther. They smile and see each other. Even when they are afar.

A caged fairy sings. It holds birds within, some furry type. It makes me smile again.

I'm joined by friends and we walk down to a concert. We are greeted by a street DJ who makes small music. The size of his synchroniser is less than a couple feet. A yellow telephone receiver that doubles as a mic adds to his yellow hat and suit. Adorable.

We hear more music. Is this a concert? Are there people dancing?

There is music here! A drunk woman screams. I laugh.

No, we have to walk further. We sit on the grass, and a friend smokes. There's drumming. I stand up. A white man with long blonde hair is lighting the stage up with a banging set. Strobe lights flash, red and white. He ends it to cheers. Before beginning the next set, he walks up to the mic. He requests to turn off the flashing lights, and says that it makes it harder. I applaud.

Another set later, the singers enter. Pussy Riot. I'm excited as I follow their hour of music in Russian. There's subtitles on the screen. I love history lessons. That too, if they are sung? Hell, yes! A roll call of political prisoners. A cry to be released. Of revolution. Multiple cries and the crowd goes wild. I do too. It's the midnight energy I needed. My friend tries to take a picture of me. "Your hair is all I can see" she says. I smile.

Navalny's name appears and I scream again. But this song is more personal than I thought. It is a conversation between his wife and him. "When are you coming back to your home country?" "The one that wants to kill you." It's emotionally stirring. I'm overwhelmed.

We take a break, sit on the steps. There's wind and it calms down my thoughts. We talk about presents and futures.

I walk back. The chill makes me want to cover up. I let my hair loose. The wind pushes it back. Friends laugh and lovers kiss.

I keep walking.

----S