05:05

Moments of clarity, they are called.

Pulp clouds eat the moon, and an unnatural sun pours gold onto the bed I sit on inside my room. I take off my glasses and I stare out of the window in curiosity, an always to blame force that conveys me beyond lands, seas and wheres, something to praise as it remains still inside me, a comforting presence of unknown measures, undeniable, though, and thoroughly necessary. Glory rains on the streets, and inside my mind a world unfolds briskly, quickly rusting on the edges, but warm and welcome in its core, outside it rains and a bird is begging to sing. I decide to love the rain, quenching the thirst of lives to count, mirroring the asphalt and nurturing dreams, always bringing something close by. And on I decide to adore the clouds, eating and swallowing all outside my reach, and in hunger I paint plums their own colours. More so ever in blind enthusiasm I decide to fancy myself an artist - painter, poet, photographer, all inside a coveted smile, and drifting by I think of closure, to myself, that I will learn to cherish and guard. Noises bring out the colours that commence blurring molds I had cautiously set, and unremarkable scents imprint feelings of strangers' shadows on my mind, numb fingertips touch the air and stay suspended, untying knots in time, deaf words echo trough space, sewing themselves together with tissues and blank papers and falling to sleep for once on the floor. I create for endless minutes and in the end I calculate a waste of four hours to above, vanishing time put at use to no avail, that which makes me understand the value of words such as joyful, merry, and jolly.  Pulp clouds now eat the sun, and a breathtaking aurora ties me down to reality, for that I rob my breath back and drown in sighs of my own. Pulp clouds that last almost as much as they fade, lingering on the sky, sharing stage with the sun, and now I know it's time to turn the lights off, as I do. I hear a bird singing outside, but for a whimsical melody I cannot discover its methodical techniques, pulling at heartstrings for millenniums and perhaps more. Perhaps more, as I stuff myself up with wonder, and for one night alone I know life is worth all I pay.

Author's Note

Only an evening alone, a miracle of sameness.
Thank you much kindly for anyone who took the time to read it, hope you might as well enjoy some of it, if there is anything there worthy of merriness. (: