Jumping at Shadows

Sunlight walking in, and it's all bright and blue and feels like summer, but I'm jumping at shadows. Never used to sleeping alone in a house that has more than one room. Feel those night-prickles in the day. Too many Sunday evening midsummer walks through those white-light evenings that feel like folklore and superstition.

Typhoon rain this afternoon. Watch it from the windows of the call centre. Unhidden rivers flowing down the gutter four floors below. That sea looks dangerous, pulsing with grey-green swells. Skins of an imagined giant octopus, prodded from a centuries old sleep. Old eyes watching the shore. Inscrutable gaze - irradiated awareness in Atlantean pupil. Jumping at shadows again.

Cleared up now, and the sky is blue with puffy white clouds that look like clouds from mid- late September. That turn of seasons. Autumnus again. It's becoming a lost season - or a season that has always been lost. We're lost too - all of us at times. I can't read the maps anymore - they seem too haunted, and here I am, jumping at shadows again.