Heaven's Gonna Burn Your Eyes

It is a rainy December. The weather teases with possibility. But we are humans; for us possibility is synonymous to a guarantee. So when the clouds roll off and the sun burns so hard, your eyelashes become golden droplets in peripheral vision you curse and say, "But the weather was so promising." Now, aren't we not a race of self-made disappointments?

So, hello, I am revisiting this because I was beginning to feel heady from the madness of being here. I am on defense. I have been for awhile now; like as if the/ my world has shrunk, and the walls of my mind is retracting as though coiled in fear from this sudden expansion of thought and music is just notes and octaves and everything is once again a dead conversation between two dead people. My lips are sealed, and yet these thoughts are madly articulate. I can see clarity and sense disaster. Of course, at the end of the day, the only consolation is, I know this means I still feel passion.

I think my biggest fear, I've realised, is that one day I am going to look back on these days and wonder why I never say what I want to the most. It's always sensibility over emotion, clarity over the desires. One day, I am going to wonder if it could've happened, if life could've been a path of rose red petals, never mind the thorns outlining our desires. And I think, I will always be thinking that maybe, far away from this city and its bright lights, it would be possible. It would be possible somewhere else, where the sky is vaster, deeper, blacker. Where the stars are cloistered in groups; those dead lights from thousands of years ago.