Think Advent Calendar

There's half a memory, and it keeps trying to resurface. Was it a book that I had as a child? Or a film I saw? Or something I came up with all by myself? Not sure.

Night fell a while ago, and everyone but me seems to be indoors, cosied up, cocooned against the darkness. Curtain gaps reveal tantalising glimmers of light, blanketing from public view nearly all that goes on within. And yet, someone here hasn't pulled their blind, drawn their curtain, shut out the out. I can see in. Not everything, just glimpses.

I'm on a train; fast moving capsule carrying me home, swishing me by all these other lives. I'm too quick to see much: lampshade, telly-flicker, shadow on a wall; dinner on the table, dishes stacked to dry, light goes out, baby bath. Who are these people? What are they thinking? Are they sad?

The street is lined with trees; cherry trees I think. In spring they have pink blossom, just now bare branches silhouette against the clear moonlit backdrop. There's no pavement to walk on, so I'm aiming for the middle of the road. Again, I'm drawn to the windows, shining their secrets down onto the street for me to hold close. Someone is laughing; it's a party. I can hear music and the tell tale clink of hired glassware. Their neighbour, an old man hunches in his chair, leaning towards his television. The News. No dish. I bet he's muttering under his breath about the inconvenient bursts of hilarity from next door.

Something about this grabs me. He's aware of his neighbours. They are oblivious to him. They are all unaware that I'm here, observing, just for a moment, this fragment of their lives.

I go home. And draw the curtains.