The best way to dance is in dreams

Weak light, cold blue light of pre dawn. Eyes closed, awake.

Suspended.

Seagulls caw, call, cry. The sound of seagulls, wheeling, the souls of drowned sailors, calling. Crying.

When I first moved to London, stayed the night at Emily’s, waking in Covent Garden. Waking to see seagulls against the blue. Mean bastards, but free, flying. Playing in the air, like I’ve only done in dreams. Lucid moments where I dance free from gravity; the best way to dance is in dreams.

Eyes closed, awake. I could be anywhere. I could be by the sea. Could open the curtains to see Brighton streets.

Open my eyes. Weak light, the dreamy blue of pre dawn. Human vision is biphasic, our cones detect colour in bright light, our rods sensitive to luminescence in low light. This space, in between; the most dangerous time to drive, vision suspended, the world invisible. This is when you’re likely to collide.

Open my eyes. Same old room. This room could be anywhere. The top of a fifteen storey block, a detached house in Edinburgh; I could be anyone, here, being no one, in the weak light of pre dawn.

Seagulls call, long dead sailors trying to return home. I close my eyes, imagine I’m by the sea.

Suspended; invisible. Waiting to collide.

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