Some nights you try to convince yourself that you never loved her, but that it was only the familiarity of her laughter in a room full of strangers which drew you in, that the twinkle in her eyes was only so endearing because it reminded you of the night sky, but then you get up to look out the window and all is dark. The moon has hidden behind a curtain of grey clouds and the stars seem to have dimmed. You laugh as you realize that even the universe doesn’t know what to do without her- how can you expect to be able to put yourself together ever again? And as the moon peeks out guiltily from behind its veil at that moment, you start to miss her with a ferocity you never knew your tired bones held.
The wheels have started to turn.
Or rather, the wheels have started to slow down, they’ve started to stop and the clock has started its final countdown.
Everyone can feel it, it’s in the air now.
We’ve run out of time, my love has run out of time.
We’re all getting caught up in frantic attempts to tie the ends of our own tapestries perfectly, but while doing that, we’re leaving so many other ends untied, frayed, inexplicably knotted.
And I guess that is how it will remain for the rest of forever, reminding us of our choice each morning, coming back to us with the taste of black coffee, familiar and bitter all at once, reminding us of how we chose the world over ourselves, and ourselves over the world together somehow at the same time, how we chose to be selfish.
You see, it isn’t even a choice anymore; we don’t have an option, it’s been forced down upon us by society, and to choose anything else would be nothing but pure foolery right now.
So why is it that I’d still choose you over everything else?
Image taken from here. What a great photography blog!
And I know I only post black and white images with my blog posts usually, and I’m so sorry I just think they’re really pretty.
Black and white brings out beauty in even mundane things, it’s magical.
It’s 2:22 AM, and it’s been an hour since she went to bed, but you’re still up, aren’t you, still sitting in front of that screen, bleary eyed and exhausted, listening to this band she never liked but you’ve fallen in love with?
You scroll through your Instagram feed, head bobbing to the tune, when you come across a post where someone has likened their beloved to both the sun and the moon. It is a beautiful piece of writing, one that makes your heart ache with the wish that it was you who had written something so filled with emotion, but then you stop, and you think about her again.
She cannot be the moon, you think.
No, she is entirely the sun.
The moon waxes, and the moon wanes, you see, and some nights, when the darkness gets too much, it even disappears.
But the sun, my darling?
It’s permanent, and so is she, with her tempers and her flares; the sole point that anchors your universe, providing warmth on a chilly day and thawing your frozen heart.
She’s strawberries, and she is sunshine, and berries and unadulterated laughter and the smell of freshly cut grass.
You’re oranges and lemons, and the melancholy darkness of a crescent moon, when all is quiet, as if the leaves themselves mourn the disappearing of that sliver of silver in the night sky.
As different as night and day, as east and west, but don’t they say, opposites attract?
Image taken from Tumblr.