Very early in the morning, a cold breeze slips by the tall sad buildings of my neighborhood, light and unassuming of heat's doings throughout the night. I feel permanently marked by living, almost obliged to pay my respects and move ahead, simply because of the few delightful minutes this breeze offers. The cool of air is perhaps the only physical sensation which does not overwhelm nor bore; a comfort from the sky. I stay until the first rays of sun interrupt our moment. The breeze does not come back until evening, when the movement of the city dulls down and the faces of people are obscured by shadow. It's almost as if the sweetest of pleasures wait for us to be in our most careless of states, too loose to bother.
Then there is night, shedding its summer wonder, the prickling needles of thought and laughter, replacing them for rest. It grows heavy and slow, and sleep feels like the moment before and after anaesthesia, not the void in between; you almost dare fight it. I wish I could stay here forever, losing track of time and sight of being. Winter tramples my ego in illness and surrender.
Spring awaits at the edge of the drip, inevitably, but how long winter lasts or what it entails is a vespertine mystery that no one stays up to hear. It is an act of courtesy from time, which has seen and known weariness. It only wants your peace of mind.
You don't know which is more worthy of laughter and tears. The crumbling of obstinate glaciers, satisfying, or the gentle melting of snow on leaves, hopeful. Either sounds wake you up anyway. Night is ready to expand and warm up for company. The earth is relentlessly ceaseless in its turning, taking the most from a burning star in a nonsensical orbit of fate, and so we oblige.
The many faces of slumber come full circle, back to wide open eyes in the dark, for it is unbearable to look during the day. Each year bloom either the seeds of shame or knowledge, and the rare crops of heaven planted and grown from summer to summer. People take, consume, throw; take, leave, go. A thing for everyone's taste. You either bid adieu the heat: kissing your fingers of sweetness, or withering of hunger. Baskets are heavy and appetites are shifting indelibly.
Snowflakes are forming somewhere far, spreading like the diverging roots of time. Their glass-like ringing echoes in waking dreams, even when it is barely cold here; perhaps because we are always eager for the wheel to keep turning. Perhaps because every time is a good time. Suddenly it becomes apparent how long life really is, and how ridiculously fast, a paradox which can only be broken with presence; a clock without numbers, pointing towards you.
Since when do northern lights come south?
So as long as sense eludes the most wakeful of minds, is as long it will take to crash into the most dormant of hearts. No one should question but still, acknowledge the lack of answers and die curious. Watch the dark creep and make flickering sparks against its swallowing depth; specks of light, sounds devoid of meaning or reason.-
-Resist in your first and last language; body.
Swim up. The water isn't frozen yet; it remained liquid around yourself. They are reading Crepuscule by E.E Cummings on the radio, and it is yet again breezy morning.
Woah
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