Unlike 2 AM, afternoons are not meant for Navel Gazing…

“There was no certainty to time, not wrapped in thickets near trash cans, or in the soul. I love the way the earth waits so intently to spring joy in only minutes of life, while the rest of the times, we’re being ourselves. This goes to show that we’re sad, and the show always goes on.” He shrunk to the foot of the bed and fell in interruption of his musings.

Something always disturbed his bad routine, and even if he knew it was bad, and he wasn’t in the ultimate illusion of life, he would go on with it.

It became sadder eventually, as if it were stomached to perish in the freshness of cancerous sunshine. Sometimes he would find a calm amid the pillars of smoke that occluded the bluesy grayness of his eyes, and the hands that wire truth to unreality, which would sustain him another day. From there on, it was dreams and epiphanies arranged to the opening sequence of his construed eternity. He sunk into the lungful sofa on a Friday afternoon, and he mused another sympathetic thought, “I can’t let everything seem so dark blue” but then he thought about nothing. Not about the concept of nothingness and not about its apartment complexes for imagination. Blankly staring the ceiling and the bookshelf holding his definitions, that ecotone was the finale to all his feelings.

The positioning of protective surface over important persona, inspired the closing spark as he ascended toward colour deprived sleep endlessly.

Published by

Watt

It's all a matter of rust and shine, to serve a distinction between to have and to have not.

25 thoughts on “Unlike 2 AM, afternoons are not meant for Navel Gazing…”

  1. A gorgeous piece of writing. You brought this character to life with texture, light, and shadows.
    Bravo.

    Oh, on a side note; any time of day is wonderful for navel gazing (as long as it’s not our own).
    Sorry, have to maintain that bad boy image. lol
    Have an inspiring weekend.

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  4. How do you always find the words? Like not just any words, but the beautiful and perfect ones.

    I think I understand now, the highway out of hell. The bliss of the abyss of nothingness. This for me seemed key “I can’t let everything seem so dark blue” but then he thought about nothing.” I love your use of colours in this, you painted that Saturday afternoon with touches that made it seem so real.

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    1. The beautiful and perfect ones probably comes off inspiration from greats such as you and many others. I’m glad the visualization was real, because this wasn’t crazy enough to be surreal..😉

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  6. A long afternoon’s journey
    into the black & white of night.
    Reality is overrated when left
    stacked in the kitchen sink,
    along with the dirty dishes of
    time.
    As the detergent of holy
    self actualization will still leave
    the gravy stains of yesterday’s
    banquet. Visions of the dream, all our used cutlery sparkling clean.

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  11. I don’t know..?.. you, your prose… are a metaphor, a simile in the making. Perhaps… a trope in disguise, you are an important person protected in plastic wrap, like a couch, furniture that remains under its plastic protection. Your words will remain steadfast, no stains and I like that.

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    1. Thank you, Resa. It means so much to me that your thought of me and my work that way. And aren’t we all under the protection of our limited capabilities that are metaphors for our liminal explosive inner soul.

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