over the wall

It wasn't something she did on purpose, it just happened and she couldn't think of any good reason to stop. She wasn't hurting anyone, anyways, and technically this earth belonged to humans, and fences and roads actually didn't have to dictate where you went, if you thought about it.

The first time she went up and over the wall. The second time she just opened the fence. It was maybe something like what a pathological lier feels; that it must be done, just simply was.

She wasn't even what you would normally consider a night person. She enjoyed sleeping, liked waking up to the morning. But here was something unexpected: the stillness of night, the welcome smoothness the dark put over everything, the moon shining bright. It seemed wrong to go inside and so instead she looked over the cinderblock wall at the neighbor's yard.

It wasn't so much that she was hoping to see something in particular, but more the secret thrill of seeing at all. Why do we build walls of cement and cedar and pretend we have contained anything? Are we really trying to keep things out, or are we hoping, yearning, for something to want to come in?