- 4,001
- Posts
- 19
- Years
- Age 32
- Santa Isabel, Mexico
- Seen Jul 7, 2018
Impressioni di Settembre
For days I breathe and the fear doesn't dither, and as I stay still facing the old, burnished wall clock I become more sentient. I dread days, oh I do, and I fear the twilight frequently. Why? Is this funny or pitiable, it is, even to me; but I remain cold before a hasty judgment in my meek mind. Such one that is to caress my nerve and make me shiver, stumbling across the road of a dumb pursuit, a pathway struck with pictures and walls, and a beacon I urge not to reach. Should I keep this in redundancy? Not truly. I compare a lifetime. I lay it by the face of anything as ordinary as time, as sunlight. What are days? Distant remnants of a broken echo, which insidiously carving itself into a colorless wall once more, is now forming a mirror, falling and clashing like jigsaw pieces into a timeline of disgrace, of panic, of constant smiles, of a life. I make of hours years, I make of seconds weeks. Being leads to death. As daylight to dark, each derides the other and then dusk marks a nearby end, dawn is a new timeline; but not unchanged. Mine is to end sometime… That is my alarm.
I walk through a silent alley. One place I know as much as I know myself; where I remain oblivious to the demands of a different culture. I vaguely distinguish the time of day, but it should be daybreak already. It's the only reason I feel willing to discern what the sunlight will give me today.
I hesitate a moment, still... There will be no sunlight. I know this after reaching after the gloomy brick corridor I scarcely pierced, and I come out to grasp a screen on which the morning caress is as twilight, and a dim contrast between that and the dull red luster from the walkway makes no worry on my eyes. Also, even ironically, I was truly expecting to be bathed by sunlight for a day, while it often made me ill. Instead I'm soaked by cold drops of lucid, falling water, while I continue my wandering through the frame of a quiet city, below a sky overcome by dreary clouds.
After a few steps through the square I'm already drenched by rain, and I become dimly aware of the early birds, and the sleepless working people that enjoy the humid smell of wet pavement. Those are people unafraid, brave and willing, troubling about things that deal with life, ignoring death for the time being. But merely when it is present on a prized person is when one becomes anxious once more like I have. Whether one loves life or finds its end repulsive, depending on the soul, it gives our time either a sour drop of terror or a healthy laugh. Only people like me are to know death is not forgiving, and its arrival chronic, and that leads us to fear, yet when it's not close. I still miss her... Even the usual bright premise of days seems cloudy to me now, because it's a longtime, jaded, fraternal love which I starve, which I lost, what I am to blame for my now apparent negativity. I wonder why I was to suffer; I wonder why it was not I. Would I still stumble at the mention of fatality? If this wasn't meant to be me, would I still be gazing upon the faded skyline?
Maybe it all becomes rather rhetorical as I sit by a damp way of concrete, watching the autumn leaves hurry by the moist air around me; fixed on the muddy floor beside the hard park's pathway, lifeless, they add to my portrait of fallen proposals. Of course, looking at the lengthy limit of the hills, I'm still weeping inside, like a helpless boy, as If I bore the most painful fate one could ever handle. I also find that thought repulsive. But those hills are different than me; they helplessly attempt to carry the sun once more, and I should believe, for once, I'm not a pessimist.
The streets are still mirrors to the heavens, and lights are not to be found anymore, as the sun has rose up to my left, slowly moving eastward. I find this graceful as the thick blanket of gray degrades its glow, and it does not cease the struggle to come through to me, it does not vacillate, it reaches out, it wants to wash me with its flush. Then, just then, I stop by a thought, a coming muse… The potent radiance, it does not give in. It repels any grounds of holding back; it crawls by the limit of that murky blanket, crying to surmount it. Of course, night did happen before, but it wasn't sufficient to prevent it from racing behind me once more. Me… Shouldn't that be me? I suddenly feel a warm stir was to reach me once again, it's good and easy, while I had not procured it for years; it is hope. Even still struck by rain…
While I'm realizing this, I cannot count the seconds, or the hours. It could have been several ages until I knew it was noon.
After all, the sun was now giving me more bright. Something tore the rain away, and the city was now sparkling at the blend of light and water. Everything was looking casual, again… But I could not help smiling at nowhere after what took place before my eyes. I never waited for such an ordinary sight to change that old and sad perspective I had held for years so suddenly; nor I was able to remember ever truly enjoying the simple image that stood before me; a cozy, orange-colored atmosphere, a western breeze and the voices of the trees, the essence of September. I was to meet the world again. "Heh" I muttered, still smiling, but halted by surprise.
"I've never actually liked orange…"
For days I breathe and the fear doesn't dither, and as I stay still facing the old, burnished wall clock I become more sentient. I dread days, oh I do, and I fear the twilight frequently. Why? Is this funny or pitiable, it is, even to me; but I remain cold before a hasty judgment in my meek mind. Such one that is to caress my nerve and make me shiver, stumbling across the road of a dumb pursuit, a pathway struck with pictures and walls, and a beacon I urge not to reach. Should I keep this in redundancy? Not truly. I compare a lifetime. I lay it by the face of anything as ordinary as time, as sunlight. What are days? Distant remnants of a broken echo, which insidiously carving itself into a colorless wall once more, is now forming a mirror, falling and clashing like jigsaw pieces into a timeline of disgrace, of panic, of constant smiles, of a life. I make of hours years, I make of seconds weeks. Being leads to death. As daylight to dark, each derides the other and then dusk marks a nearby end, dawn is a new timeline; but not unchanged. Mine is to end sometime… That is my alarm.
I walk through a silent alley. One place I know as much as I know myself; where I remain oblivious to the demands of a different culture. I vaguely distinguish the time of day, but it should be daybreak already. It's the only reason I feel willing to discern what the sunlight will give me today.
I hesitate a moment, still... There will be no sunlight. I know this after reaching after the gloomy brick corridor I scarcely pierced, and I come out to grasp a screen on which the morning caress is as twilight, and a dim contrast between that and the dull red luster from the walkway makes no worry on my eyes. Also, even ironically, I was truly expecting to be bathed by sunlight for a day, while it often made me ill. Instead I'm soaked by cold drops of lucid, falling water, while I continue my wandering through the frame of a quiet city, below a sky overcome by dreary clouds.
After a few steps through the square I'm already drenched by rain, and I become dimly aware of the early birds, and the sleepless working people that enjoy the humid smell of wet pavement. Those are people unafraid, brave and willing, troubling about things that deal with life, ignoring death for the time being. But merely when it is present on a prized person is when one becomes anxious once more like I have. Whether one loves life or finds its end repulsive, depending on the soul, it gives our time either a sour drop of terror or a healthy laugh. Only people like me are to know death is not forgiving, and its arrival chronic, and that leads us to fear, yet when it's not close. I still miss her... Even the usual bright premise of days seems cloudy to me now, because it's a longtime, jaded, fraternal love which I starve, which I lost, what I am to blame for my now apparent negativity. I wonder why I was to suffer; I wonder why it was not I. Would I still stumble at the mention of fatality? If this wasn't meant to be me, would I still be gazing upon the faded skyline?
Maybe it all becomes rather rhetorical as I sit by a damp way of concrete, watching the autumn leaves hurry by the moist air around me; fixed on the muddy floor beside the hard park's pathway, lifeless, they add to my portrait of fallen proposals. Of course, looking at the lengthy limit of the hills, I'm still weeping inside, like a helpless boy, as If I bore the most painful fate one could ever handle. I also find that thought repulsive. But those hills are different than me; they helplessly attempt to carry the sun once more, and I should believe, for once, I'm not a pessimist.
The streets are still mirrors to the heavens, and lights are not to be found anymore, as the sun has rose up to my left, slowly moving eastward. I find this graceful as the thick blanket of gray degrades its glow, and it does not cease the struggle to come through to me, it does not vacillate, it reaches out, it wants to wash me with its flush. Then, just then, I stop by a thought, a coming muse… The potent radiance, it does not give in. It repels any grounds of holding back; it crawls by the limit of that murky blanket, crying to surmount it. Of course, night did happen before, but it wasn't sufficient to prevent it from racing behind me once more. Me… Shouldn't that be me? I suddenly feel a warm stir was to reach me once again, it's good and easy, while I had not procured it for years; it is hope. Even still struck by rain…
While I'm realizing this, I cannot count the seconds, or the hours. It could have been several ages until I knew it was noon.
After all, the sun was now giving me more bright. Something tore the rain away, and the city was now sparkling at the blend of light and water. Everything was looking casual, again… But I could not help smiling at nowhere after what took place before my eyes. I never waited for such an ordinary sight to change that old and sad perspective I had held for years so suddenly; nor I was able to remember ever truly enjoying the simple image that stood before me; a cozy, orange-colored atmosphere, a western breeze and the voices of the trees, the essence of September. I was to meet the world again. "Heh" I muttered, still smiling, but halted by surprise.
"I've never actually liked orange…"
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