N/P (White)

No moon is out that night. The natural creations are lackluster, while the artificial creations blink and shine.

        To us, within the range of touch is the moon that is flagged and the burning bulb. Yet the bright, bright glamor of the pure white, or the ever-lit coziness after the dawn, are never within the range of our touch. Each attempt we had, every effort we made, is nothing more than a moth to a fire.

        Standing on the terrace, I stretched my hand to take a piece of rain from the fall. A slight bit from it struck loudly on the hanger. The chilliness wants me inside, but I insist on stabilizing my feet like a sculpture.

        I am outside on the terrace on the third floor, staring at the light from the windows of the building across the street. The rays coming out of smaller boxes are turned on one after another. I looked through one of them. At first, I thought the room connected to the window was a bathroom, but only minutes later, I realized that room was a kitchen. Behind the window stood a woman in a maroon sweater, a white apron around her waist. Her hair created waves elegantly as it fell gently on her shoulders. It did not move with the movement of her hands. I could not see her face, but the orange rays in that distant kitchen poured out from behind her and whirled her up into the world of light. I moved my sight away from her onto the moss on a stone board in the far corner of the street. The rain created several ripples on the stone board an I could no longer tell the surface of water from that of the stone.

        When I looked back at the window, the light and the woman were not there.

        ......

Jiahui Ni, 2020