Truth – telling
Became a blur casting various shades and hues, a darkened cloud began to rise over us. For awhile, I felt the rain was fine. It was ordinary in the sense that on right days I could envelope it, watching it drench the leaves of flowers. I could bare it more when the thickness of the air raised goosebumps on our forearms and I’d nest my head against the plump side of the pillow wishing you could enjoy this with me. The rain came as it was, never – changing besides its intensity between light mist and heavy downfall. It was no different than it was that I looked away from it feeling foolish that this feeling of emptiness began to fill me, rise up filling the area surrounding my lungs as I sighed too many times. How much is too many? You cannot count them numerically, it just is.
Some days are no different, stagnant and reclusive or better than most and a shimmer of light. I could narrow how much I described sadness but happiness (content) took great effort, it was laborious. It’s presence leaving marks of stretching farther than where you have been, although no eye can see it. It appears sloppily effortless as if nothing lost could shake it’s core.
I live for days such as these restorative in making the most of what it is now, what it could be, should be or what it will really be. Lying and truth – telling becomes as if one can hold a mirror in front of their face and coldly say that is not me, I have never been without knowledge of what I truly am like.