excerpt

excerpt

It was raining. The rain was surreal.
In life, everything, all the minor details in life that are so easily looked over, the imperfections that contradict the very nature of perfection itself, breathe with meaning and purpose. Only a couple hours ago, I had been blissful; only until I realized that I was a mark of nonexistence, a mere scratch on the marble slate of essence did I actually breathed the air of actuality.
Who am I? I am in an eternal state of morning, living life as it came to me, like a leaf brought down by the graces of nature to silt down through the wet, sublime, sovereign air, only to modestly sulk and travel alongside the sidewalk into a gutter, left to coexist with all the other rotten filth of society. Somewhat like a fallen angel, I thought. After all, even a falling leaf was obligated to represent meaning and order.