It’s two minutes past midnight and I’m thinking about everything and nothing in particular and how it all means something to me. The sun has long set and will soon rise and I’m wondering whether it ever feels meaningless, insignificant in a universe so vast and expansive. Amongst millions of other magnificent stars it must be inevitable, right? The feeling of being infinitesimal . . .who can avoid it?
It’s half six in the morning and the sky is red – shepherd’s warning. Fiery rays strike the earth. The day will be angry, I can tell. Everything isn’t as it should be. It’s a Monday morning in the end of August and everyone is mad. Anger. It’s what happens when someone has hurt or offended you. The sun is offended, by something, by the mundaneness of its never-ceasing job maybe.
It’s seven minutes to noon and when I look up all I see is grey. Clouds heavy with rain; the sky can’t hold back her tears. I watch the world as it pours. Gloomy faces devoid of smiles. We’re all running indoors, away from the rain. Humans, we’re experts at running away from things. But it’s understandable . . . what else can you do when you’re sad? Broken hearts and 2-day old tea have one thing in common; they’re grey –a colour that is neither here nor there and thus fills us with grief.
It’s forty-three minutes past six in the evening and visibility is reducing. Dusk. A word of one syllable. Simple. Many simple things are beautiful. Hues of orange and pink up above, as the sun retires hoping she’s accomplished her day’s objectives. I’m wishing it could stay like this forever. The air is cool, so a light sweater will suffice. It’s a good time to write letters to a future love, while the frogs and crickets begin their night songs. I’m feeling whole.
It’s a minute to midnight and I’m still up. Sleep patterns no longer exist. It’s very quiet out and I like it. I can hear myself think and breathe. The sun has long set and will soon rise and I now understand that each day has its tides and waves. It makes sense. We need them all- the good and the bad times. They make us who we are. I look out and the blackness doesn’t scare me. I’m all of it. I’m the sun. I’m the stars in the dark sky. I am significant even among millions of other heavenly beings.
*A piece about how feelings are ephemeral; lasting only briefly.
Onward, valiant soldiers.