Today when I awoke, the world was grey and discolored. The hows and whys of this occurrence eluded me, so today I hide behind my words. I wielded them like swords, a protector of my spirit.
On this very same day, I went about the nonsenses of the day. Like lazy meanders, I move. Languid. Yet unlike the fluid that flows, I was immobile. Lost and yet not wandering. Lost and yet so very rooted to the very same.
On days such as these, it never fails to amaze, how the world stops to function. The littlest drift possesses indescribable power and pushes you over the edge. On days like these, the grandest pleasures pale and bleed into cloudless mountains. On days like these, you don’t resist the luring darkness.
And so I write these heavy words. Read Neruda. Look at Picasso. Stare at fragmented lines, conveying multitudes of empty neglected thoughts and hopes. Interrogate Dali and his colors, subtlety mocking this state. Then I pray that tomorrow will be fathomable. Bearable. And maybe, just perhaps livable. Because, today was so much less.
On days like these, you shed some tears and be a little bit gladder that tomorrow awaits behind the gentle curve of the horizon. Then you are happier, for you realize that with every moment past, you are already nearer, till this same day next year.
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