There are nights, nights in which I stare into the vastness of the dark sky. The blanket that resembles a void when, in all reality, what contains through it is a brighter spark; covered in spirals of light condensed in stars. There are times in which such view is considered the darkest of places when it hits the surroundings. Nevertheless, it's funny to think how the blackest of edges have a widened brightness within them. It's as if, by the end of the way...there could be a greater destination than just an aimless method.
And, in those thoughts, I often wonder if that could happen to me. Do I have a lighter strike? Am I going to be allowed to condense in the depths of something further instead of just walking on the surface? The fact that I'm considering all of this, that I actually have the capability to knit the words, to place scattered pieces of a puzzle...is that enough for me to be allowed into hope? Or why am I like this? Why do I clutch to that senseless desperation of connection? Is it actually senseless?
Right now, as my dull eyes wander on this part of the day, when everything goes elliptical and the only sound triggered is my attempt of breathing...is when I imagine myself having a heart. Not a cold, non-functioning one; but one with the capability to thump, to palpitate as soon as my fingertips hit my chest. I wonder how that was, back when I was alive. I wonder if when I got excited, it beat so fast, I'd feel it getting out of the cavity.
But now, there's no trace of that. Or so, I think. Sometimes, I think I feel that light increasing, as if it was telling me that it's still possible for me to capture the essence of energy within me, completely. But most of the times, I sense that it could be a part of my imagination.
It makes no sense. But when did all things make complete sense?
