Blackout

I was walking home from class around dusk. The streets were darker than I had ever seen them. Absolutely no light except the slivers from the sky, barely breaking through the clouds, frozen magma overhead. And the wind didn't just howl. It moaned. And it squealed. Then it whispered, fading into apocalyptic silence. I didn't pass another human being the entire way down Atwood street, and as I descended with the landscape, my only company being the sneakers swaying overhead on electric tightropes, I felt my insides rise up in exhilaration. I might have begun to sweat, but fear played no part in my autonomic response. This was the body's way of responding to something it has never experienced before, and will likely never experience again. It was my body's way of tuning in to the physical world--of realizing just how beautiful that world can be when stripped of its material "necessities".
I made the tedious journey through the impenetrable darkness of the winding staircase leading to my third floor apartment, finding the proper key by the feel of the cool metal ridges against my skin, perfectly attuned proprioception allowing me to unlock the deadbolt almost effortlessly. A few steps in, I grabbed the large white candle atop the bookshelf in my living room, hopped delicately over the various articles of clothing strewn about the floor, and made my way to the stove. I turned the dial on the left-hand side of the range and waited for the subtle hiss of gas escaping the valve to evolve into flame before thrusting the cylinder of wax head-first into the inferno. No blaze of glory, just a flicker in the darkness. Just enough to let you know that everything is going to be alright.