Chronicles of a night-time walk

Campus by night is a different complex. In the basin of the moon's light, concrete buildings transform to marble, glowing white in the dark backdrop of the sky. Inside them is the only sign of life, students incubating beside the spotlighted window with their faces flooded with laptop energy, shelves of books framed by the geometric architecture, silenced conversations of canteen diners. 

Wide lamp-lit streets are completely empty for once and walking in the centre of the road feels completely liberating. My day of exam stress is immediately channelled into pure adrenaline as I speed purposefully through low-lit areas and narrow alleyways plastered with graffiti. The assumption that someone will burst through the tree line is always a given but in this moment, only the harsh sweep of the wind through the landscape can be heard, and perhaps the low wailing of the neighbourhood dogs. 

There are moments which are worth noticing on this walk, that make me stop and desperately take hold of my attention. The homeless dog's relaxation on an old thrown-out mattress and the scattered city lights below, the signs of life the campus positions itself back from. 

It's an invisible city though. In the day light, you assess your location according to the position of the mountains, your proximity from that one peak which is shaped just a little differently, the surprise appearance of the vast lake which sits at their feet. But in the dark, the campus feels isolated. The mountains disappear into the darkness and they have to remind you of their presence with the sharp blow of their icy, snowy breath against your bare face.  

I rush back home once again to feel the warmth of my dorm room.