The sky fades, the heart slows, the cadence falters.
Then a spectacular gradient fills the sky, a ruby-lit pink skirting around the smoky azure. They merge, then weave out, before finally merging again to create the skylight’s palette. Not quite a mix, but a binary that seems to absorb each other.
The darkness sets as the week prepares to leave us in reminiscence. But I have so much to do, so much to see. But enclosed in this space, with the jazz beats moving into the sponges of my brain as if I were an osmosis. Just like the gradient, where the serene azure blends, more and more, until the speck of the dust in the sky is no more.
What is the purpose of all this, the endless scribbles and the heartbroken notes, if we all return to the same place we begin as? Death is an outerspace. To live life, then, is to excavate the innermost crevice, an introspection I must grapple with in a world too noisy and self-absorbed. The crickets chirp and my head slowly vibrates along with the 64bpm of the song, the bass line envelopes me. This is probably just yet another mirage of mine. I’m not here right now, I’m at home, cozy, surrounded by familiarity, weighed down by the tedium.
Is it too late? I wonder if the course of life has already been set for me. The trajectory, mapped out for the foreseeable eternity, as sure as the falling sky and rising darkness that will soon envelop me, you, the chirping anthropoids.
One by one, the sun’s harbingers soar away into thousands of miles away. And then a car soars by. I wonder who’s driving, who’s the wife, who’s the son, daughter, the branches of life sprawling underneath the love of a man and a woman.
It feels strange to write so freely. Sometimes, I thrive in the confinement of the technicalities and the lives of others. But rarely do I get a chance to sit down and face myself at my true, inner self, ill-fitting with the preconceived notions of a world built by impassive men with passive emotions for their own kind.
But somewhere out there, ruminating on the obsidian-dipped blue ceiling above our heads, is her, enclosed, but jubilant and hopeful, that a connection awaits. Soon, we will become the beautiful gradient ourselves, scintillating against the night that never, once, has failed to take us back to the halcyon past of our mythical creation.
