Buoyancy in the stillness of everything

“Forget about the charm, just seize the quaintness of an aging photograph. “ –  Everything was so still, life in suspended animation.

I held it with me for a while now, with a date written on the back to remind me of a distant time.

As I look forward to the next morning sun on my face, I packed a few clean shirts and a container with just enough water in my bag.

The universe mocks, as the sky scowls and a crooked thunder bolt ripped the horizon in half.  Tonight the sky is a misunderstood friend.

Of a prayer to disintegrate into a thousand word declamation blemishing on paper, I hear a feeble shush from the faint rain.  So in the tides of the sheets I went back, to wrap this inability to hold a vessel.

With all the leaps and the summersaults, all the remnants of the night, and the unheralded voyages to the slumber permissive night, my indecision was there to await me in the morning.  But I guess the days will decide for themselves.  However it is.

For people do not change much, we always think that we do, but we don’t.  We are merely the different versions of ourselves, like a book, today is a chapter, tomorrow is another.

I have seen this before; I knew this from somewhere very familiar.  On a cold windy evening, I once placed my head against the table next to a drink.  In shame, my body curled voluntarily.  But in a dream she chose to forget about my crimes. “No need for tears tonight”, she assures the frail.

And that made me feel better for a while, a momentary relief; I could almost taste again the salt of the ocean.  I knew I heard it, and I was glad and yet reluctant to indulge, as if I was held back by something.

So I called upon the falling stars twice, along the long howling of a mutt outside the window, I guess she was cold too, the moon revealed finally.

The satellites and the fireworks begin to dabble, bleeding into the skies playful, while the girl on TV in her black laced dress smiles upon the blinding flash of silver nitrate.

Just for one more incendiary sight.

They made love by the frenzied colors of lights made of transparent glasses and endless promises.  The romantics feast on the unspoken sonnets and unpublished narratives.   How it was different from the nights before was never made known to me, nor it was spelled significant.

I clung onto this ideology, as if it was an imperative biological necessity.

I was up before dawn; the pavement held glittery fragments of the stars.

The rain must have shattered them on their way through.

 

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