Nighttime and the room is littered with my breath
inconsequential day that stands in still water like a dark smudge of ink, slowly blossoming into a bulge of spreading stain. smirking briefly at its feint immortality; gradually transforming into a distorted ribbon of wispy ashen threads that languorously fade in the incurious transparency of water.
Bit by bit dark fibrils reduced to a musty strand, suspended not long enough to have its existence retained by indifferent water before coalescing to become one with it.
Its proud cimmerian stance dispassionately dissolved into watery nonchalance; much like any day– that starts with promises of being new, and slowly melts into nothing as night nears.
Days like these and nights that follow, abundant though shallow come with a relief of mundane apathy. To love them is a choice, but living them is mandatory.
No comments:
Post a Comment