Coming home

The day is late. The dark is silent. The smallest noises magnified. I read, the page turns, rustling.
The eyes are slits. The dark pupils glitter as they watch me read. More pages turn. More things happen. Within those pages of course. It’s still. Life seems not to move, except in the pages of the book. Is there no life outside it? Seems like not.
When the day is but a beginning, a middle and the end, what is real about it? It’s like a structured story, a plan with people in it. The people are random, but predictable, have nothing new to say.
Suddenly a surprise. One person talks about karma, the womb, rebirth and reaping the rewards. I think, I listen, then once again, the barometer dips. It’s nothing. It’s a read idea – translated, it means a surface scratching. Like a kitten sharpening her claws on a hall chair.
I return to pages, this time, to another book. The pages rustle, I turn, I move with it. There is Time there, moving within those pages, moving, happening, feeling, living. Then outside, the air seems stuffy and still, like a vaccum-packed, sealed pack of chips. The morning arrives, the packet opens, the chips come out, are eaten, the pack is thrown away. Another day ends.
I come home in the mind. The beginning, the middle and the end are over. Life begins again. The pages rustle. There is music, there is life, and Time moves.