Grip.

Like sand on my hands, I try to pick as much as I can up to no avail. For both right and wrong reasons I try to pick up each grain.
There is no certainty whether the sun might decide to pull everything down with it, or if it will simply say goodnight. Everybody says it has done the same thing since the beginning. Tonight, to our surprise, it paints.
Like the orange-violet gradient on the horizon, it is hard to tell where each color ends or begins. Each color is distinct but the flow from one to another makes it one.
Lullabies from the wind drown the light. There’s no chorus. There are no lines. There’s only continuous crescendo. Similar to the flight but more enchanting than the impromptu. Numbers of symphonies humans have created are no match to this. Until it dies.
Silence.
Then come little murmurs that spring to life the tiny sparkles of the newborn darkness. No SAT score nor GPA can explain this. Not even the most literate person in the guiness book of records can describe it.
Like the little boy who first discovers that he can fly. Or the little girl who learns that she really is a princess.
There exists not a word in this lifetime to explain this rupture.
Maybe it’s that little second when your heart stops and everything in this world shuts up.

Like sand on my hands, I try to pick as much as I can up to no avail. For both right and wrong reasons I try to pick up each grain, and every time I fail.

There is no certainty whether the sun might decide to pull everything down with it, or if it will simply say goodnight. Everybody says it has done the same thing since the beginning. Tonight, to our surprise, it paints.

Like the orange-violet gradient on the horizon, it is hard to tell where each color ends or begins. Each color is distinct but the flow from one to another makes it one.

Lullabies from the wind drown the light. There’s no chorus. There are no lines. There’s only continuous crescendo. Similar to the flight but more enchanting than the impromptu. Numbers of symphonies humans have created are no match to this. Until it dies.

Silence.

Then come little murmurs that spring to life the tiny sparkles of the newborn darkness. No SAT score nor GPA can explain this. Not even the most literate person in the guiness book of records can describe it.

Like the little boy who first discovers that he can fly. Or the little girl who learns that she really is a princess.

There exists not a word in this lifetime to explain this rupture.

Maybe it’s that little second when your heart stops and everything in this world shuts up.

Highlights of the Week.

CCC meks me huppee.
Goodbye, Princess D.
T is for trust.

Oh my God, I think I’ve actually lost the plot.
Oh my God, my brain is fried and my nerves are shot. + 1l.
— Mockingbird by Low Millions.

It’s too cheesy that I’m quoting pinche songs again.