Sitting at the balcony of my second floor room makes life look so still: firmly frozen in time and space. The weather is callously cold, unless of course I’ve decided to reduce my body temperature with the unknown potential of my brain: mind over matter. But on second thought, I could actually make an attempt, If I was been scorched on the sand dunes of the Kalahari Desert that is. However, the motivation to write tonight is not to bore you with the temperature changes currently taking centre stage due to global warming or seasonal changes, but to describe what a sight a silent night can conjure.
Though this cold breeze finds it appropriate to distract my work, I’m not perturbed whatsoever. I mean the scenery is simply magnificent. I can count the many street lights looking like matchsticks set alight and buried in the ground. The only problem here is that these illuminated rods are of different colours, certainly not consistent with that of a brightly burning matchstick, more so because they never go out. This vista intrigues me and my little finger, considering how powerful it so easily becomes, as it prevents the trajectory of the lights from reaching my eyes when it covers those tiny coloured dots. Mind you, this is only possible within the range of my pupil’s panorama and not anywhere beyond.
I wonder how it must feel to be seated in outer space, especially when everything down here is enveloped in a mass of dust, water and gases, inhabited by tiny organisms called animals (no offence to the human race). Critically observing rapid movements of many minute cars along the main road has stirred up this mental soliloquy. I could easily crush them with these same fingers from my elevated position, only if my imagination could overpower the force of reality within a split second. The giant ruling this widely stretching environment has probably run out of electric-pole sized crayons because most of the structures encompassing me are without enough or absolutely no colour.
Thoughts of touching the starless sky keep drawing me towards the balcony’s balustrade, swaying me towards the likelihood of falling over, which would certainly be a once in a lifetime experience: one that would produce a story without an author, or a portrait without a painter. Oh! The matchsticks have lost their light. I guess the giant blew over them without serving prior notice.
My eyes are heavy, and my battery keeps dropping steady...
Written by : Kojo Essuman Ackah
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