Joey Cifelli ’23
In twilight, we find ourselves caught in the center of a pane of glass, held between fingers of Sun, Moon, soft darkness, dull light. A time when the sharp edges and corners of our world grow weary. The Sun, which welds shut the door to mystery, is not so fiery anymore. Cracks open and out crawl the nameless parts of reality, which shrivel and die under definition. They roost atop our world’s laws, bending them a hair away from their usual uniformity. The fun is in seeing what comes along to fill in the gaps. Certainly, it is uncertain. 8.2/10.
On days such as this, when there is a stark and asymmetrical formation of clouds, we might observe them and question their origin. We have a pretty good idea that these things are made of water, and that is pleasing in itself. The water molecules making up these fibrous bunches have been all around the world, in our oceans, in our bathtubs, even inside our own bodies. Millions of years, and here they are, for us to observe. Now they’re gone, and the arrangement captured here will never exist again. One miniscule speck on an infinitely large, infinitely chaotic canvas. What a beautiful world we live in. 8.2/10.
It was another stormy night. The sea raged and roiled in the darkness, smashing black waves like krakens against the jutting coastal rocks. The lighthouse stood above the chaos. Further above the moon shone, its moonlight soft and muted through the nighttime clouds, and whatever drops of light that came through were quickly swallowed by the turbulent waters. The grass was black, the soil black, even the air itself felt dark and thin, as if at any moment it would fade away completely. The only substantial light in the scattered coastline came from the old lighthouse. It was not the white, commanding light of the tower’s guidelights, but something gentler. A warm, golden light that felt rich and substantial against the wispy air, like honey pouring into rubbing alcohol. 8.4/10.
The light popped and burbled and dripped against the coarse stones of the lighthouse. It was alive, and wherever it touched the darkness shattered into pieces and cool warmth flowed into the space that was left. The boy in the window watched the light with wonder as it spilled out of his room into the night. He pressed the tips of his toes into the carpet and pressed his face against the glass. His breath fogged the glass and sealed the light inside, and once more the darkness seeped into the air. And in the always dark, in the pitch night, sound itself was swept behind the curtains, and nothing breathed, nor buzzed, nor clicked in the silence that swallowed the old lighthouse by the sea. 8.4/10.