a day of maroon

A Day of Maroon

Bland weather, soupy skies.

I imagined raindrops on the windowpane, today, when I woke up to this silence: invisible lines meandered with a pitter-patter softly drumming in my head. The world was a soggy mess of colours. The air - a frigid humming from the conditioner. I sat in bed for awhile, thinking about the things you could do in the rain, or in bed, or dead, but I felt as if I was being translated somehow: the voice in my head felt distant and spoke in harsh whispers back to myself. Like I needed justification for my thoughts; like I was on this huge, fucking, stage.

So maybe we are all actors. You and I, my love. I sat on the beach and dipped my finger in the clouds, drawing a god in the sky that only I could see - replete with a top hat and this crazy grin. You drummed your fingers at me, impatience seeping out of your skin. I smiled like how I imagined it to be, but I was hating it - like invisible raindrops; like crazy, fleeting dreams.

And when I walked down the streets, I saw beasts playing the lead. I looked into the mirror and liked what I see, though horns and pitchforks are so last year, I must admit. Maybe this is one fucking comedy.

Yeah, that's it.

Maybe I'm just missing the script.