The Vague.
Muted colours, muffled whispers.
Gently, I traced the trail of raindrops with my wounded fingers.
With surprising decisiveness and steadiness.
As if,
most things are definitive.
As if,
wounds have healed.
~*
Consumed by itself,
the moon stopped shining.
Even so,
the night sky was still beautiful, and unbearably so.
~*
In between the staccatos and legatos,
the notes danced with grace and vigour.
At every pause, time froze, and the notes hung in midair.
Perfectly posed.
~*
There are splinters embedded within.
With every movement, they shift ever so slightly,
piercing and perforating yet another artery.
The pain serves as a constant reminder that
something was broken.
It doesn't matter
whether or not wounds heal.
It doesn't matter
how broken things (we) were.
Because splinters remain.
~*
Cold, but warm.
The Not-so-vague
What's your meaning in living?
Maybe Viktor Frankl can give me an idea.
Currently reading 'Man's Search for Meaning' - a memoir of his life in Nazi death camp and his theory on logotherapy (that the meaning of living is the pursuit of meaning itself).
~*
And watching Darker than Black made me ponder about the essence of human nature, and the functionality of emotions (yes, they serve evolutionary purposes).
But in this day and age, do emotions facilitate or hinder?
Sometimes, I think like a machine.
~*
Need a remedy for flu and chronic headache...
and disengagement.
