The scorching sun, perturbed tidal waves beat like marching drums across the horizon. Leaf-lace, bottle bits, open wounds — newfound discoveries. This is the summer song, a cadet’s call for a voyage towards ubiquity. Yet the soldier is always so fragile — and home was never quite red brick and polished acacia floors; but the barefoot tread into the entrenches of a million little blades culling themselves in the midnight breeze. I feel like our rooftop was always meant to be the broad expanse of a million glowing torches, floating and beaming in little stardust trails. We find them so enticing we mouth little sounds and depress chapbooks with intonations until we find them tranquil enough to deem them as the ‘galaxies’; and in this way the solstice was born. An army spread about a million little shrivels of greenery stare at the droplets tracing their skin – they fall in love with the way their spine tingles at the ray’s fluid kisses; how the breeze comes every now and then and how the sky never seems to darken or give in. Summer is born and in its very birth it has been condemned to die.
Tag: journal
Sixteen
Reading Time: 14 minutes
1.) I think, those were the days when I should have been a little more reckless. In a way that I assumed more control than I usually did — in a way that I stopped letting them get a hold of me, everything I say, everything I do. I think it’s time to let go, to let loose and show them who I really am — but that isn’t the case. Beyond this husk of a person they deem in a forever-lasting nadir, the prickling of skin and the drops of blood as if they were shed tears. In the kindest, most terse way as possible — I concede to them; maybe I am magnanimous to some, to others I am just the word weak instilled into the waking world over and over.