Some would call it an hour in the dead of the night, but for me, on most nights, this is the hour when I feel most alive. There is absolute silence, with an occasional bark of a dog or the screech of a car being driven by a hasty driver, shattering the quiet. But I can hope to stay away from the ringing of the doorbell or having to respond to a question from me mum. Don’t get me wrong. I love my family to bits. But there is this place I love to be, deep inside my head. A place of absolute calm that comes only when I can stay oblivious to the rest of the world. And it only happens on hours like these, the ones others would call the dead of the night.
There are only so many things I indulge in, in this quiet place of mine. Mostly it is reading. That is when I’m not writing instead, like I’m doing right now. Recently I’ve taken to doing one of the two while watching Fox Crime. I am absolutely addicted to it. Interesting crime stories, all of them. Of course they are macabre and violence is not be discounted. Still. Interesting stories.
And reading? Don’t even get me started on that. I have some 12 books going on at the same time, a couple of hundred lined up on my shelves and a million more perhaps on my iPad, all waiting to be read. I know I’m going to need a few more lifetimes to get to them all, but here’s hoping I can keep reading till my eyes burn out or the words exhaust themselves.
Reading, writing, an occasional TV show and a song to groove on. These bewitching hours are the ones when magic happens for me.