bright spots in the night sky to pierce our eyes, tandem to the black sky, a bountiful accomplice. we sit and stare at the bright spots, imagining them to be figments of movement that we are accustomed to, fitting their movements to scenarios we play out endlessly in our minds, the mind a powerful tool.
there are no clouds now and the sun has been taken down. all so often a powerful loud hum fills the sky, encompassing the space within our ears, reveberating within us until the plane has completed an arc of the sky and wafts into a cloud.
the chairs are a rusted steel, scraping on the brick coloured ground as we take our places. i worry about the white of my shirt as i lean back against the rust. my palms are filled with a coppery substance, the colour of rusted, dried blood.
saltiness fills my nostrils, the by-product of a wonderful sea breeze.
under this magical night sky do i believe that we can truly cease to live and begin to exist.
3 comments:
to live: to do, think, learn, feel
to live can be tiring.
to exist- to be one with the night sky, to breathe as it breathes, to simply be contained in the moment.
perhaps an irony, perhaps not.
what i chose depends and varies.
by the way, your last line is starting to sound jarring. :)
correction: choose
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