I look out the lonely window, misted in the mornings cold.
I see shadows, grey and formless, out there in the sleeping
world. Still sleeping, on this grey and quiet morn. I wonder
why I feel this way, why I hate the noisy, bustling day. Why
I prefer instead, to stand here, alone and cold, and draw
pictures in the condensation, gathered from my steaming
breath. My melancholy is my oldest friend. She sits there in
the corner, content to stare, wordlessly out the misted window,
and fidget with her hair. I wonder why I have this life, why I
am not instead, a tree or rock or distant star, burning coldly,
out in the great expanse. Or even a flower, violet with the
shade of twilight, here only for a brief while, a second to
The Infinite, and then gone, blown away like chaff upon an
Autumn wind. I wish. For I am like the quiet breeze that
stirs the grasses, and raises the heads of sleeping flowers, in
the cold of early dawn. I am like a shallow pool, clear for those
with eyes to see, still as a translucent mirror, set upon those
tiny waves. People glance my way, and then continue, on
with their vibrant lives, so full of light and color, determining
in a passing glance, the frailty of life I hold, no threat, no pain.
As easily extinguished as to blot a word of faded ink.
I sit here, my melancholy by my side, hand upon my shoulder.
I wonder if it is not time, to seek some newer fresher place,
like the violet in her time. I wonder if it is not best, to leave
this faded world behind, and just....go. To leave and seek a
better clime. For after all, what's a word of faded ink, too
grey to read, so light as to be barely seen, but a thing, not far
removed, from the clean expectancy of the white beneath.
Awaiting only a ready brush, and ink, near at hand.
This is a quiet morning upon which I write. Truth bleeds from the tip of my pen,
demanding of the world, to recognize it as it truly is. My gift and everlasting curse.
