The Untitled

June 19, 2014.

Its 2:55 in the morning. As I spend another sleepless night blankly staring at the ceiling, contemplating on life and happenings and of wishes not fulfilled and of words misunderstood, waves of emotion jostle the boulders of rationality, and I suddenly find myself overpowered. I feel vulnerable, pushed to my very limits, a test of patience I cannot further withstand. I feel uncomfortable, almost choked at suppressing the obvious any longer, and an urge to write enthralls me, to give a voice to the unsaid, to put abstractions to words. I look out at the clear night sky one last time before my hands take on to punching keys at its will. I write on :

I stare at the skyline
Spread ahead, then disappearing
Lights blinking in and out
Writing stories in the sky
And telling tales I can’t hear
And I think of the ripples of water
In the inky sea, too dark for me
To see anything but wavering
Reflections in; distorted stories
And trembling tales I’ll never know
And all I can think of is the fact
That I’m thankful for the skyline
And the lights
And the stories
And all I don’t know
Because if it was only the sea
Stretching without a break
In front of me, I’d think of things
Like forevers and promises and
You. I’d think of things I can’t have
And I’d think of words that mean
Everything, and nothing
And I’d be a wreck because all I
Know is that infinities scare me.


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