Dendrite

There’s always a deafening silence that precedes a storm. Once that storm brews, people become deaf to the thunder, hearing only one voice that gives you the signal.

Run!

It’s rare to see a clear sky here, being the industrial sector of a large Northern country. It’s either that or I’ve only given notice to gloom than beauty these past years. It’s been all cold again.

What mesmerises is difficult to touch, impermeable to adulterating acts by cold hearts but without resistance to the adulterer. You begin to wonder how cold the winds become as you continue listening for Her voices. None of them seem to speak to you directly – you’ve been eavesdropping. Who is it?

Millions of cars on the freeway, but so little movement. You see nothing but what seems like an infinite permutation of squares, all lined up on the zipper line of the asphalt jacket. You can’t make dreams here.

But this life is a train. You know where it generally takes you, but you haven’t the slightest clue how long it will take you, how fast it’s going to go, and how many people you’re going to see take the same train. People leave at different stops, some people come on at others. Maintaining eye contact is strange so you look down on your own little stories, reciting them into as your own nihilistic desires. How beautifully animalistic.

I sit on this train, thinking of cherry blossoms on an abandoned road, and beside the same road a moat with lotus blooms and black-eyed fish. I can’t make much sense out of it except I’m alone walking this road, subtly and unnoticeably caressed by falling petals as the stray shyly past my lips before falling to the floor. Above all, I’m alone.

The skies are panned with fresh, dull paint this day. The scent of rain fills the air of flora and musk, but I can’t tell if the storm clouds are coming to me, or if it is I that is walking to them. Inevitably, I am to be rained on.

What lies beyond is unknown, and somehow I feel foolish not to turn back and return to where I was, but the scent of flowers have become too alluring – too provocative, yet seeming void of lust. Or that’s what we all want to believe.

Despite the outcome, I’ll walk the road in my austere robe, red with regality and passion, showing little but the shadow draped over everything but my lips, wondering what will become of me. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps death. Or perhaps an endless road to nowhere as I stay mulling over something nonexistent.

The bane of emotion.