There was a girl I knew, that used to take long walks.
You could find her walking the street each night, the same time, the same pace, and even the same steps.
She thought for many moments as she stopped in the middle of the street. She thought she was alone. You could see her mind begin to wander.
She had no words to share with passerby’s. Just a peaceful, but blank smile.
She was never really alone, because for some of us she had become a night time story.
She fit in with the night.
The one’s of us that noticed, began to read her expressions.
The other’s in the street never truly noticed, because they were constantly leaving.
Small repetitions to a cycle.
But I just stood there on the stoop each night, watching.
And there she would appear, like a familiar thought in sleep……she would be in her head….telling herself.
“Why am I here?”
in my head that is.
I spend way too much time here.
I think maybe, it’s just easier to spend time with my mind.
I wonder if anyone else feels the same.
Somehow my mind is my best friend.
I can get it to agree with me on everything.
We have the same likes. The same dislikes. The same problems. The same celebrations.
I …..really get me.”
She kept walking no where in particular, staring at nothing.
Feeling the wind, but not really registering it.
Her hands were cold, and her breath was textured.
But it didn’t matter, because she was absent.
She never felt the cold, and didn’t realize the beauty of her own breath.
One thing the night walker forgets…..is to be present.
I see them all the time….the ones that walk at night.
All creating circles in their shoes.
Talking to themselves.
They may have others fooled.
But I understand that they haunt themselves at night.
Especially on those long walks when their minds begin to wander.
Sometimes she get’s so lost in her own thoughts, she forgets the true date, and everything begins to blur together.
And when she wakes back up to the reality she has created. She has to spend time sorting it all out again.
It’s exhausting to be one of the night walkers.
But I believe she has created a fable in her mind.
A beautiful fable that will never be put to the pad. No pen will write the words.
And no readers will softly speak her truths.
She has contorted her reality into something so much more.
More illusive than I may know.
But I can see it in her face that she finds happiness there.
In those steps.
And who am I to wake the dreamers.
So I sit. And I watch. And I wait.
For the moment, on one special eve, where she will join us here under the snow fall.
It may not be much. But it is true.
And I think that is all the night walkers truly seek .