Night

Night. The clock has just passed midnight. We turned off the lights. Finished talking. Stretched out to sleep. I look at the door frame. Its edges are illuminated by the moonlight, which somehow filters through the blinds and regular curtains. This frame fascinates me. Thoughts circle: if I don't fall asleep - I'll photograph this doorway, how it looks at night. If I fall asleep - I'll rest. Dasha sleeps, I lie down and look. I reach out to the phone, try to take a shot with a long exposure, but without a flash. The result is just one black spot, no way to recognize the door, but it's there. Took pictures, kept taking. Decided to go write. Now I'm sitting here, writing. Something indistinct resides inside me, wanting to express itself. What is it? I don't know. But I write with hope that it will soon emerge. Earlier, dark doorways used to be sources of fear for me. Now they're a mystery. You can gaze into them. To see the unseen. To see what's not there even in the light. To uncover a secret, an essence, something crucial, but always elusive. Lately, I find myself laughing at myself or at others when they claim to have grasped the very essence of things. All of it seems like the wind, which you can't catch. But you can feel it, you can set the sails and navigate through life. Just like that, jump out of bed and write incomprehensible texts. Give in to that unrecognizable force that inspires, that unveils the horizons of the unexplored.