Another New Day

When the sun hits the window, I look out at the streets below. Perched atop eleven stories, I have my own tale to tell to the deceptively toy-like town, and the neghboring one, and the next one, and on and on, until it reaches the cities where it'll one day hit the pavement. Or not.

The sun hits all the windows, which are abundantly clear. Stray distractions pace in this bright, sterile space, and are scrutinized to their core. They have no shame. In all their nakedness, they mock the time that feeds them. They do not let up, because they know they cannot be tamed. Still, one hopes that there are at least moments when they rest, when they loosen their grip on time. And, one hopes that such moments can be accessed from this rarified outer shell of life. One also hopes that these sustaining hopes can be entered, like a worm hole whisking one away into a universe where possibilities aid, not taunt.

[distraction | creativity | writing | muse]