I didn’t answer the call of the wanderer last night, although I did lie in bed, watching the eerie light of traffic and the dim glow of its master shifting from green to red. The wanderer did whisper to me, as tired as I was. I didn’t share any of the goings-on of the previous night’s trek across Fayetteville. Seeing new sights at 2 or 3 in the morning is an uncommon gift. I prefer not to have the wanderer call my name on consecutive nights, though, if the universe is listening to me.
At some point, as I concentrated on the silhouette of color and brightness that oscillated across my mostly-closed blinds, sleep made its invasion. Later, I noted on social media that many of my contemporaries suffered insomnia; for whatever reason the wheel chose them instead of me.
This morning, as I slept, I found myself in a magical dream, one in which I was flying and looking at the city below. It was the best part of the day, when the sun had dimmed enough to cast a softer light across the landscape. I realized I was dreaming. But I didn’t want it to end. I am sure there is a labored metaphor nestled in there somewhere. I don’t know how long I was flying in my dream. It may have been a minute, and it may have been five hours.
It was at that moment of lucidity that I woke up, my eyes turned to the dim lights outside. Had I slept? I wasn’t certain. Had I flown? Equally unsure. Unlike the night before, I uncovered the projection clock: 3:33. I was glad to have slept, but also mourned that floating feeling of my dream.
Outside, green, red, green, red.
No matter what life we live inside our own heads, the cycle of stop and go persists.