sunset&impressions&night

sunset&impressions&night

Every moment and every dream I fallen asleep to, I have woke up from. I look up to the light and bathe in the warm sunlight just to find myself that every day, the sun sets, just as every night, the sun rises. But even finding myself in these horrible, hopeless situations, when I wake up to another day, I look behind me to find that yesterday was much warmer. I pass by seasons of spring, summer and autumn, but each day has its own tragic end, knowing that the feeling I will feel tomorrow will be one step less hopelessness because my life revolves around the hopes of yesterday. But that is why I come to a place like this, when I can appreciate the daylight of last year, or the day before that. The reason behind my breathe lies in the past. The hope of the hopeless is beautiful.

* * *

The tremendous advantage of a first encounter is that the impression that it leaves is usually favorable, an image more so compatible and excellent than the actual demeanor would dictate. If only all our relationships were based on these shallow miscalculations, letting our imagination lengthen the remains of the personality beyond all balanced borders. This shallow world would be pleasant to live in. But this is not so. As relationships between people deepen, so does the propensity to see flaws. The flaws increase and we realize that the balance was inevitable to be fulfilled in order to have a deeper understanding of the person.

* * *

The cyclic overtones of distraught and revelation lie buried at the summit of his curious being, becoming the glasses of which he peered at the world. He was not waiting for some obscure mysterious epiphany to dawn upon him, or the holy angels to descend a cloth of enlightenment upon his soul, for his revelation was the very existence he contemplated.

Sleep fell over him like a docile creature, bred to domesticity after countless nights of inbred captivity. Daybreak is no longer a mystery to him. He longs for the moment day and night no longer will uphold their cordial reconciliation. Perhaps his lines will extend a ink stroke further, perhaps his mind will wander one eternal step closer to the creation of art. But he is a chain to his words, and time is no longer at his shackles.

Daybreak falls like the morning star, with each step he lapses deeper into the darkness, closer to the light that awaits. Dawn is an illusion.