There’s a sheet of translucent paper covering the city every evening.
I am reminded of photo albums of old. The view is teasing, and the blur of an outline of a smiling face or a posed body, is there for us to guess. Then the distinct rustling of the smoky paper, as we slowly flip it over for the sharp image of a long-ago memory.
No such luck with the city. The softening paper is stuck to the image. The sharpness, can only be recalled in our memory from summers gone by. The ghost of the city stands still, and as the night falls, it freezes beneath the softly brushed rays of the neatly lined street lamps.
Nothing dulls the sharp thoughts that the mind has thawed after the long day. Inside the mind there is no translucency for the fissures that arise. Sharp, and clear in contrast, the hairline fractures, even, are as obvious as the confident strokes of a master calligrapher. The irony is there for us to see. The maze formed in the wake of the thoughts crisscrossing through, though, are sparse. Once the maze was dense with the tails of these comets, and we traversed every path they chose, sharply turning at every whim.
I recognise these thought-comets, but not all are clear or present. Some have just left. Some, I chased away. Some, broke. Some, are sulking in a far corner. I remember them, but can see them no more. Something like this effect of the translucent blanket that covers the city
I see them as dulled outlines of old memories and blunted emotions.