The Ephemeral Luminescence
Time is a construct
It’s not until the lights flicker that I notice the fissure running across the ceiling, a hairline crack bleeding uncertainty into my tiny studio apartment. The room is silent, save for the refrigerator’s hum and the occasional drip from the leaky faucet, which I’ve meant to fix for weeks.
I’m seated on the edge of my unmade bed, the cheap frame creaking under the weight of countless sleepless nights. My phone buzzes intermittently on the nightstand, messages I’m avoiding piling up like sediment. I wonder if any of them matter now.
This morning, I found a peculiar envelope slipped under my door, no name, no address, just a single, cryptic word: “Today.” I’ve spent hours dissecting its meaning, tracing the loops and lines of the handwritten script as if it held some hidden code. It’s unnerving how something so simple can gnaw at you.
I don’t remember when the dreams started or if they were dreams at all. There’s a woman, always just out of reach, her face blurred like a fogged mirror. She whispers secrets I can’t quite hear, and the room feels colder and emptier when I wake.
I recall a moment from years ago, a conversation with a friend over lukewarm coffee in a dingy diner. “Time is a construct,” he had said, stirring his cup absently, “a fragile thing we cling to, hoping it gives our lives meaning.” I had laughed then, dismissing his existential musings as the ramblings of a bored philosopher. But now, in the suffocating stillness of my apartment, his words echo with unsettling clarity.
The lights flicker again, more urgently this time, and I feel a strange compulsion to escape these four walls’ confines. I grab my coat and the mysterious envelope, shove them into my pocket, and head out into the dimly lit hallway. The air is thick with the smell of stale cigarettes and disinfectant, a sensory assault that only adds to my growing unease.
Outside, the city is a din of life and decay. Neon signs buzz and sputter, casting an eerie glow on the wet pavement. People move with purpose, their faces set in expressions of determined indifference. I blend into the crowd, an anonymous shadow drifting through the urban sprawl.
The envelope feels like a lead weight in my pocket, a constant reminder of the enigma it holds. I wander, my thoughts a turbulent storm, until I find myself standing before an old theater, its marquee announcing a single word: “Today.”
Inside, the air is thick with dust and the faint scent of popcorn long past its prime. I sit in the back, the worn velvet cushioning my descent into the unknown. The screen flickers to life, bathing the room in a pale, ethereal light.
It’s a documentary or something like it. Grainy footage of a man, disheveled and frantic, running through the same city streets I’ve just navigated. His eyes are wild, darting around as if unseen specters are chasing him. He clutches an envelope identical to mine, the word “Today” emblazoned on its surface.
The man’s journey mirrors mine, with each step resonating with an eerie familiarity. The film’s narrative is disjointed, jumping between past and present, blurring the lines of reality and fiction. I’m transfixed, unable to look away as the story unfolds in fragments.
Suddenly, the man stops, standing before the theater, staring at the marquee. He turns, looking directly into the camera, his eyes piercing through the screen. “Time is a construct,” he says, his voice a low whisper reverberating through the empty theater, “a fragile thing we cling to, hoping it gives our lives meaning.”
The screen darkens, and silence envelops me, his words weighing heavily on my mind. I realize with a jolt that I’ve been holding my breath, and I exhale slowly, the sound echoing in the deserted space.
As I step out into the night, the city seems different. The edges are softer, and the colors are more vivid. The envelope in my pocket is lighter; its mystery is no longer a burden but a curiosity. I walk with renewed purpose, the existential fog lifting ever so slightly.
The fissure in the ceiling of my apartment will still be there when I return, a reminder of the fragility of existence. But for now, at this moment, I am part of the city’s transient luminescence, and that, somehow, feels enough.
Ultimately, I grasp a singular truth: we are all fleeting shadows chasing the light.
Ani Eldritch 2024
