GOODNIGHT. (A writing exercise in trying to write a beautiful passage about something mundane)
The room I see before me is dimming. Outside it is dusk, and the darkening, blue sky leaked a pale light between my halfdrawn curtains. The ghostly light of dusk would spill across my bed and my blank walls until at least it reached the far corners of my room, where it could not quite catch the shadows of night which clung wanly to the nooks, waiting for the evening to swallow me whole.
I see in the grasp of those shadows, vague shapes of books on the bookshelf and of clothes on their clotheshangers, their sleeves and features melting into each other, hurting my eyes as I squinted to try and differentiate each article.
At the end of my bed, over the top of my dog's curiously tilting head was the halo of light from the hallway, eclipsed by that thick wooden door which stood closed in the frame. Like an eye, a slit of amber light peered in at me through the empty keyhole. This warm light was locked away, and for that I was happy. Because my eyes had become heavy, my thoughts foggy with the onset of dreams I might fall into between waking and living. These white walls watched me anxiously, waiting for me to fall into my sleep. My body felt faraway and before I could know it, I wasn't in my room anymore and darkness had taken me.
A click, and the light disappeared from behind my door.
