Good Night.

It's 00:50 at night while I'm writing this. The street lamps emit a dull orange glow, the sky is dark and has only a handful of bright stars to wish upon. The streets are black and clean, and there is no noise of cars. I'm all alone in the house, for once. And I get the sporadic urge to skip down the three floors of stairs and run around barefoot on the cold ground.

When I'm like this, alone and quiet, so quiet I can hear my heart beat ring in my ears, I like to imagine I'm the only human being left in the world. I'm all alone, in a place where the lights still go on. The shops are open and stocked up but there are no people behind the counter. There are no stray dogs barking the night away. There's just me and the cold north wind.

I know a train of thought like this should be disturbing. But somehow the idea of being alone is kind of liberating. Not having to respond, to react, to answer to anyone. Not having to talk, not having to hear the sound of my own voice, which I honestly get so fed up of sometimes.

How would life be? If I really were the only being left? Would I read all the books in the world and hum softly tunes that will never be played again? Would I skip like a child to all my destinations? Or would I slowly go insane, losing myself in the endless labyrinths of my mind?

I think the latter would be most likely, but it's not like I have to worry about my strange, deranged wonderland actually happening. My temporary tiny window to solitude and silence is enough.