There was a particular string of Christmas lights.
It carried twenty of the big, clunky old outdoor lights. The globes were transparent, delicate shades of yellow, red, blue, green, and purple, and you could see the filament within.
And they blinked.
Not all at once, or in a 'running' pattern, but individually, each according to its own unknown internal beat.
Those lights mesmerized me. I tried to time the blinks, looking for a pattern I could predict. But there was none.
They went their own individual ways.
There was a fragile beauty to them, a delicate majesty.
They are so much like us. Burning bright, and then going dark, to no visible pattern, but holding nonetheless to the hope that when the light goes out, it will come back.