Staring at the sky on those clean wintry evenings can be so peaceful yet estrangingly harmful.
You see the distant horizon building a wall, possibly made out of fears, illusions or lost promises now running wild through this dim chilling atmosphere. A fortress rising from scratch, everyday, or should I say every night, flawlessly on time. Like a ticking clock, fog approaches to shed some of his vile mist upon you, to tell you what time is it. It’s time for you to return to your head and bend it against your will, afresh, as usual.
You shouldn’t obey but still, you favour melancholy over hope, allow meakness to engulf hardihood and there you remain, mortified, holding your warm yet livid, now freezing body, seated on your bedroom’s window base, made out of a dark granite that subtly blends with the dismal 11pm dead ambience.
Your nights seem to be carved with floating discoveries, conclusions you reach through deep arguments, chats you solely have. You keep talking to yourself, for that’s the only way you’ll get the answers you need to hear. No one will ever be as kind and accepting of your assumptive truths as yourself.
You grab a smoke and adjust your earphones; your iPod’s playing “What If“, you thoroughly listen. Towards the indistinct surroundings of this strangely tranquil neighborhood you gaze, unfocused. Those moon-kissed roof-tops may tell you something someday, but not tonight, not until you fully understand them, you check all their flaws and kinks, all those tile misplacements, silently hiding from the common busy eye. They happened to be faultily placed, undeliberately yet with purpose, awaiting for someone, you, the lonely suburb vigilante, the one entrusted to find and perceive them. They exist for you to find reason within their illogical existence.
From your window, you’ll see there’s more to those urban canopies than birds can tell from far above; quiescence behind those tempestuous clouds, relentlessly emerging every sundown; warmth to melt away the slicing snow flakes, falling like dulling sprinkles on your already dormant hands.
Only then and there, besides your very own solitude, you will bluntly sense the rain and the wind, and every single caustic hurricane revolving the entrails of each one of your lost tears.
Maybe one other night, when those dark starry skies overhead seem denser than the vapid vacuity rooting inside you; perhaps on some future, yet unscheduled midnight, may you finally recognize the true meaning of being one with yourself and whole to the world.