Bright blue. The road still roaring behind him, but the quiet of the garden lies ahead. Urban stresses destabilise, he's been languishing in mental misery, worry. Weary of protracted pressure, fulfillment evasive, or lost forever into the mists of the past.
Shading to azure. A lunar smile glimpsed through the leaves invites him in, promising reprieve. The path saunters into the vegetation. He glides away from the noise, paced at a measured adagio. A few turns breaks the direct visibility of the buildings, branches embrace his perspective.
Tinting sapphire. The footway meanders on, unhurried. Lamps along the manicured greenery hum to luminescence. Sounds of screaming tires still affix his thought on worldly concerns. The hues of the trees diminish in contrast with the failing light.
Spectrum cobalt. Falling sun, glazed orange. He drifts among the trees, smells the moist grass. The first heavenly speckles reveal themselves. Always the same, reliable, steadfast. Bright inspirations to countless individuals, whether their connections were known. The canine star near the zenith. The pandemonium reduced by increasing distance from the garden's perimeter.
Toning zaffre. His deliberate ambulation allows the trunks to maintain a smooth shift across his view. A pond reflects the lights of the sky in a tranquil mirror. He can finally hear himself think, but that wasn't the point. The point was not to think.
Deepening ultramarine. He watches the slender silhouettes of the trees merge into the colouration of the darkened skies. The chirp of unseen crickets breaks the silence, but not the peaceful solitude. More stars uncloak themselves, linking hands to portray heroes and beasts of mythological association. His mind lost in the hush of the setting, can unburden itself and roam free.
Fading to midnight blue. He lies back on the empty field, listening to the music of the night. Why could this island of solitary ease not last for all eternity? The vault of the sky continues to turn, defying wistful sentiments. Breathing deeply, he empties his mind. Of sight, of sound, of people.
And then it ends, the wordless orison, return to the bustle, reluctant exodus.
No comments:
Post a Comment