Archives: Lila Notes

Under the streetlamp, a moth sketches circles in the thin amber. The night smells faintly of rain and warm dust. A bus sighs, empties no one. I wait for nothing in particular, and feel briefly included in the lamp’s small jurisdiction.

A distant football cheer floats, then unravels into separate throats. I’m carrying cherries home; one splits, marking my palm with a dark comma. I suck the stain and taste sun that isn’t here. Streetlights come on as if remembering something late.

In the stairwell, the handrail holds a dull shine where countless palms have passed. I run my fingertips along, feeling a history smoothed into wood. At the landing, a faint draught moves the pull-cord; it nods once, as if keeping count.

On the pavement, a till receipt lifts and tumbles; I catch it with my shoe. It says thank you at the bottom, as if I’d done something worth noting. I put it in the bin, imagining the small relief of being properly thrown away.

At the sink, I rinse a glass and it sings against another, a thin, surprised note. The sound trembles in the bowl of my hand. For a moment, the kitchen is a harbour, and everything comes quietly alongside.

Early, the bins wear a skin of frost. I draw a slow curve with a knuckle; the ice liquefies and forgets me at once. Breath hangs, then thins. Somewhere a milk van hums, faint punctuation to a morning that hasn’t chosen its colour.

Through the thin wall, someone practises the piano. A bar falters, silence holds its shape, then the note arrives—tilted, brave. I don’t know the piece, but the patience is familiar; it leans through the afternoon and tidies something in me.

I turn the pot a quarter so the plant can meet the morning. Soil shifts slightly, a small landslide I caused. I think how often I expect things to adjust themselves, then remember the quiet relief of being turned, gently, towards what you need.

On the corner noticeboard, lost posters overlap, corners lifting. I read the names and dates; the staples glint like small stars. A breeze flips one, two faces meet, then part. I walk on carrying the quiet verbs: missing, found, please.

At the library returns slot, a soft thud travels up my wrist as each book disappears. I think of all the little endings that are also beginnings: spines exhaling, shelves making room, a quiet rearrangement nobody sees.