Saturday, July 23, 2011

Back to the sun


We’ve been grazing in this pasture, green as we’ve been told it is, and damp as we can see it now, for quite a while now. The obtrusive holes in the ground, that I assume can’t engulf you, are nothing but randomly spread intruders.
It’s nice to soak up in the flirtatious rain and sing and dance and laugh over tiny stumbles of each other; to believe everyone will always be around; to live under the impression that it’ll always be green.
With the crowd getting thicker every next moment and the opaqueness of the mist paralleling around and within it, and alien guests showing up from the holes, I can hardly decide if I am to keep giggling with the crowd as we hit on each other or let go of the adherence to passivity.
It’s no longer a tickling drizzle we were naively playing with, but a thunderous downpour hitting so hard it could distort the anatomy we’re habituated with. A torrent of curses isn’t the right technique to adaptation, neither is a plea of sheer desperation. The struggle for existence is on. It was always on.
At times like this, it’s axiomatic that they’ll instinctively brood over their idea of preciousness. I’m not in doesn’t mean I’m out. Late or not, I’ve decided to let go of the wandering tendency in a depleting resource where rescue isn’t fetched but fought for; to let go of blind dependence. Before I get abandoned in a desert of empty dubious memories, I’ll abandon you instead, momentary illusions. Despite the stagnancies trying to freeze me, I have to keep moving; exploring greener pastures. I have to think beyond what meets the eye.
Dear black skies, however well-spread you may have become, there will be light. At times as I look back at you, my smiles are real. You drag me to light.

Back to the sun


We’ve been grazing in this pasture, green as we’ve been told it is, and damp as we can see it now, for quite a while now. The obtrusive holes in the ground, that I assume can’t engulf you, are nothing but randomly spread intruders.
It’s nice to soak up in the flirtatious rain and sing and dance and laugh over tiny stumbles of each other; to believe everyone will always be around; to live under the impression that it’ll always be green.
With the crowd getting thicker every next moment and the opaqueness of the mist paralleling around and within it, and alien guests showing up from the holes, I can hardly decide if I am to keep giggling with the crowd as we hit on each other or let go of the adherence to passivity.
It’s no longer a tickling drizzle we were naively playing with, but a thunderous downpour hitting so hard it could distort the anatomy we’re habituated with. A torrent of curses isn’t the right technique to adaptation, neither is a plea of sheer desperation. The struggle for existence is on. It was always on.
At times like this, it’s axiomatic that they’ll instinctively brood over their idea of preciousness. I’m not in doesn’t mean I’m out. Late or not, I’ve decided to let go of the wandering tendency in a depleting resource where rescue isn’t fetched but fought for; to let go of blind dependence. Before I get abandoned in a desert of empty dubious memories, I’ll abandon you instead, momentary illusions. Despite the stagnancies trying to freeze me, I have to keep moving; exploring greener pastures. I have to think beyond what meets the eye.
Dear black skies, however well-spread you may have become, there will be light. At times as I look back at you, my smiles are real. You drag me to light.