Just look at the gloss. Pseudo lights that achieve the desired effect of luminescence. The rich dark grey colour of wet pavement and aging tar. The endless hues of umbrellas contrasting against the beautiful bleakness of these gloomy days. The scenic world we live in and strive to live in forever. And next to you in all this beauty I get nostalgic about the times I stood by this ship thinking about you. Analysing the endless smoke that comes out of my mouth with every breath. As all these little grey hair-thin hands would congregate before me, mingle and part. In their mass confusion they would assemble in their desperate attempt feel and relate with something. Unable to thrive off their turmoil they cease to exist. And by this river, with the fog that passes, I know how accepting of me you are. I understand what I can’t see through this thick descent. That when the passing cars illuminate what’s in the distance and outline the silhouettes of the ice for my eyes to see, that it’s the astronomical fate being mapped before me. And though I can’t read it I, in those mere seconds, desperately look for the possible area that depicts our future. Yet regardless of what I believe that area to be, I am optimistic about the outcome

But it seems that the rain caused me to stray from my path. I am so close to you yet just not there. Not in the same premise and more importantly not there. The sun dawned sooner than I would have guessed. As the cloud cover took over, I have felt nothing but numb. Rain comes down often here, so I take a routinely walk to wash my thoughts in the varying down pours. Everything is swept clean and turned into a blank slate, yet my pursuit for you entrenches it’s self deeper every time. And persists to never change. I am unsure whether I actually do desire it to change, I’ll follow my initial instinct just to lie to myself of how I haven’t changed. I want to believe that I have kept true to my promises, I want to ensure that I can still be rightful to you. Numb, numb, numb is the constant mood. I look to my arms and see that my cuffs are in chains. I turn to you and ask you do you feel the same? I guess that in the end I am the one to blame regardless at which angle you tackle it from. The droplets haven’t stop crashing against the pavement since we have started the walk. Yet the stroll doesn’t seem to end through this convoluted urban jungle. And this will be the adventure of my life spanning over such a time. Yet as I feel it nearing an end, I look to you in longing as I know that this is goodbye for me. I don’t think you’ve notice it yet but you are in the grip of a hurricane. Twirling from place to place with a wide gleaming trail behind you. It’s not necessarily an issue for you, yet I know that I will not be able to keep with your movement, nor will I be able to await the end of the storm.


The field stands quiet and still. It radiates a sense of clarity and calm under the deep blue vault of heaven. The grass stretches for miles, a vast dark sea of green. Tall, sturdy trees dot the landscape, standing like patient sentinels among the quietness of the morn. A breeze blows across the land, soft and gentle. It brings with it the chill of winter, and the promise of decay.
If one were to witness it, they may not even notice the decay forming. After the breeze is gone, leaving the field quiet once more, a motion takes place. A single blade of grass seems to shiver, despite there being no breeze. It spasms, flailing from side to side, as if it has a life of its own. Maybe it does.

The blade begins to shrivel and die, caving under its own weight. It is unmourned. A blade of grass opposite begins to repeat the motion, twisting and turning, shaking and contorting, before curling in upon itself. Then another piece of the grass suffers the same fate. The repetitive cycle of decay continues, taking a single blade of grass at a time, and turning the once green field of splendour into a dead wasteland. It isn’t fast, as it has all eternity to work. It is slow, almost methodical.

The decay seeps into the trees, slowly tearing them apart, sucking the life out of them. It takes hold of the animals that called the field their home, ripping them asunder from the inside out. If anyone passed the field as this occurred, maybe the decay would have taken them as its next victim. Maybe it would change them, and gain a voice. Or perhaps it would cause them to fester from the inside out, and let them die again and again, forever.

The field stands quiet, under the dark grey of a gathering storm. The grass is dead, showing the rotting soil beneath. The trees dot the landscape, like lost and twisted children, trying to scream out for someone to save them. A breeze blows across the land, soft and gentle. It brings with it the forlorn chill of winter, and the promise of decay.