I probably was there, though I belonged to the night, where sun-filled days were mere illusions.
There was also an illusion of the self, wanting to miss so many people, because a walk home at past 3 in the morning can be quite lonesome at times, especially with the growing smell of cold autumn creeping through the sleeves of a thin cardigan.
Where was I, really?
In those rare afternoons when the pill has stopped working, and the day was singing like Beatles, I played with kids a quarter century younger to see the difference of naivete and a scheming mind.
Other times, ending on a late dinner at the only open restaurant on my block at 1 am bananas in the morning.
There were ample times too, spent on the train, which I particularly love on rainy days.
The afternoons when the sun waited a bit for my rise, I walked around the neighborhood, thinking of everything and nothing at the same time.
Where was I last October? Perhaps too busy being obsessed with the comforting feeling that I was mostly alone and genuinely happy.
India Arie's Heart of the matter
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