Post-partum Ecstasy

The setting sun electrified the darkening blue skies, lighting up the pastel gray clouds with a hallowed aura. The promised rains are late, but the drop in temperature breathed over a vibrant city, chilling an awakening out of the streets and corners.

A fan whirs away in the corner, inviting the fresh chill into the stagnating apartment, blowing gentle reminders that all is well for now. Another book was laid to rest, so the day was spent lamenting its feeble strut to the grave. Luckily, new life is born easily as shelves of unread wonders lie in wait of death's gentle guidance. Those that have been earthed up morbidly call back to their haunting memories etched into the mind.

Uncertainty has settled in for some time now, and emptiness is filled with random tasks called about by wandering thoughts. Meals have been cooked, stews made, and joyful frozen meats have been un-shelved and created into wholesome goodness. The depressing thoughts of an unemployed worker flit to the lighter side of the present, believing that the heavens do not, indeed, leave dead end roads among the living.

The left over alkaline taste of eaten almonds linger, their sweetness indulged upon, keeping sweetly the memories that fade into the shadows. Passing by, being done, past tense doubled upon past participles, doubling back to the past of the past. And so onwards and forwards as we dig a deeper past, we shovel the future into the present, flinging it back towards the past. Some look back and cannot escape the memory of that past, sucked back in time and stuck there. Some marvel at the sands of the present, unable to let go of the moment of being. Others peer forth into the future and pay no attention to the passing of those moments so looked forward to. Without a trace, all are eventually absorbed into the past.

Parting from time is sweet liberty indeed, when time is no longer linear, but a mess of interweaving strands. Not the organized strands of the fates no longer, but a ball of random yarn, packed together, mixed into a ball of crossing lines, no longer lines as they press up against one another. The future, the past, the present, no longer an issue, for an event can be completed, will have been completed, is being completed, or had been completed before the strands were intermixed. As if zero were infinitely multiplied with itself, infinitely producing its own progeny of selves, into infinity without the burden of one.

And as the breaths flow inwards, softening the hard summer heat, the neon dark blue skies grow into the next morning. Anew a day will start, and anew it will again the day after.