Soup du jour

Waning gibbous.

A cool spring – can you really call this spring? Festive lights shift in a light waltz in synchrony. Am I hallucinating, or are people at peace and asleep?

A short distraction. The world is as beautiful as the eyes make them. Let not colour confuse you with the quintessential form and unity of nature.

Sometimes it’s nice to watch the world run by you as you stand still. It’s easy to sneak a smile as you notice that you are not the only one at harmony with yourself.

There is no rain, but there is no sun. Should I prefer this neutrality – this stillness – as I ponder the predicament that haunts me in states of sheer solitude? Should I not be thankful for the somnolence of Mother Nature at such a late hour?

Calamity comes with the quarrel with the palpebral weights that bring fatigue to the medulla of your mind. Fighting Morpheus is hopeless.

There is beauty of flower petals that I shake hands with in-somnolence. Had I never met eyes – only mind – with one would I not trade my life to feel the flesh of them. I’m tired, but I cannot sleep.

I have not sweat in this robe – a new robe – though I’ve remained patient. There is something in the allure that brings only hairs in a stately row, but never were they softened.

Cherry blossoms alike, I know it does not acknowledge my existence, nor does it understand my intentions. I cannot resist the very forces to desiccate, yet stroke tenderly between my fingers the very fibres of the stems and petals. Indeed, it’s a pugnacious thought formed in a paradox. I’m simply too afraid of my own thoughts, and the pain of being punctured by yet another knife.

Time’s up. Stop dreaming. Your stop is next.