"When the Trees Become Skeletal Silhouettes"

The silhouettes scratch the sky, and I walk beneath them, waiting for the next story.

Music: Trio Mocotó – “Não Adianta”
It’s that time of year when the trees become skeletal silhouettes, their bare limbs trembling against a silvery, overcast sky. The day hangs in the balance—neither here nor there—caught between autumn’s last sigh and winter’s hush. The light oozes in, soft and impartial, flattering no one yet revealing everything. It’s good for photographs, self-portraits, documentation of your own existence. On days like this, the world seems content to let you observe, rather than be observed.

I woke before dawn, intent on shaping fiction with the tip of my pen. But the stories slipped away, and I found myself walking the riverbank instead. Across the Hudson, the mountains loomed—distant, indifferent giants. Morning commuters moved like shadows toward Peekskill Station, a procession of thought-lost figures masked by fog and half-light.

The Amtrak train rumbled through—longer than it’s been in years—stretching across the tracks like a serpent from some other time. Ten cars, maybe more. Each one filled with silent travelers heading north to Albany, south into the beating heart of New York. The last car, probably the dining car, stood as a relic of promise: warm coffee, cold glances, a moment of respite in the journey.

I wondered about the train’s length, the renewed crowds, the pulse of rail travel that faltered when the world shut down. It feels like a good thing—more faces behind more windows, more lives in motion. If only there were a ferry, I think to myself, sliding through the dark waters from Peekskill to Manhattan. Another way to lose yourself. Another route to escape what really is a dreary little place.

It’s Friday—the word tastes different now. It used to mean something when I was a nine-to-five office kid, watching the clock, aching for release. The commuter’s refrain: freedom at five, even if you’d slipped out before the hour arrived. Back then, there was the Castro. Friday nights on the town, clubs and crowds, a routine of laughter and noise. So many pretty boys. San Francisco was full of them.  Now, Friday is just another shadow passing by.

This week’s been different. Anti-social, maybe. I’ve been slipping through the city like a ghost, uninterested in the crowds, evading faces. I haven’t cared to meet or know anyone, save for one familiar figure I didn’t manage to avoid. The rest—strangers, acquaintances, noise—I let drift by, nameless and faceless. I never answer the phone or check voicemail...because it's not him calling.
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I suppose I’ll emerge from this fog sooner or later. Shadows always break, and light creeps back in. But until then, I walk the edge, watching the world unfold in grayscale, waiting for the next story to find me.