a walk home
a walk home
I love walking home at night. In the hush between streetlights, or with a playlist of sad songs leaking into the dark. There’s a strange calm in the unease of nighttime—like the world is holding its breath, and I’m the only one listening.
11:11 p.m. It’s just me and the sidewalks. Me and the thrown plastic bottles and the cigarette butts curled near the curb—emptied and discarded, still holding traces of someone’s lips. I guess I understand that kind of aftermath. The quiet after being touched, then forgotten.
Between songs that ache with heartbreak and resentment, I pause to hear the rhythm of my own footsteps. Sometimes it’s the only sound that reminds me I’m still moving, still here. When the streets are really empty, I step past the stop signs like it’s an act of quiet defiance. But I still glance both ways. I still hope the world plays by the rules even if I don’t.
I walk fast, though I’m never really going anywhere. Slowness feels indulgent—something I’ve never learned how to afford. To move slowly is to say time doesn't matter. And if time doesn’t matter, maybe nothing does.
But out here, in this space between yesterday and tomorrow, I feel everything. The ache, the longing, the strange joy of noticing it all. And for a moment, in the soft pulse of streetlight and solitude—I let it fill me. And I call it bliss.
