At a certain moment, we might agree with the idea of fluctuating value of things; pre-, syn-, and post- literal rift–as if it happens in tectonics. The past is a crack of dawn which we desire to arrive soon. A momentary lure we know we cannot have for long; a transient bliss departing way too soon. Seconds passing, carrying along the bluish shade, wintry air, chirps of chaffinches, dewdrops on narcissus, and so forth. Along with them is a renewal of yesterday’s sins, all erased together by the entrance of morning. We wish we will have a daybreak forever chained in our sky. We wish it were a gift sent to our dorm, wrapped with sunbeams and sealed with new hopes of new days. We want it to be ours evermore.
The present is a noonday, at twelve post meridiem. The kind of time when fatigue wins, lack of breeze ruins the whole temper, tension gets higher, and we cannot fastforward the chapter of hardship. Things we cannot hide away from queue in line. In every corner of the road is humans surviving their fate. On the top of skyscraper building, between two tiny alleyways, in an offshore rig, all we could find are faces persisting lives. When it becomes quite hard to deal with, when pleasure is not so easy to gather, when every effort we put is misjudged. We long for a getaway. The abandoned restraint we ignore disregarded. We begin to forget it comes from the birth of the daybreak we once adore, we fail to recall the bygone time when we long for it, we disremember that the midday is a consequence for our wish of new day born.
And the future is a twilight. An epilogue of a story that would soon lead to an end. A part of a prose when we are reminded of any kind we have been through before, when forgiveness is offered and we begin to chill. Billions of stars are above our heads as the Sun falls to the west, yet we know they never share the equal brightness. The frost is here once again. We realise we want the Sun, we need her warmth, the kind of tenderness we eventually know we lose. Those looks of humans subsisting destinies are gone, as they quit reminding us how to reside utterly. We miss the past at the part when we do not thank much enough for what we have at the moment. The evening is only a perfect timing for resting, and forgiving, and escaping to sleep to heal the ire.
If now is the time when the Sun is amid east and west,
would we have a seat side by side and enjoy our lunchtime together to survive the twelve o’clock, or would we waste more time waiting for the dusk falls into place soon just to remind us we once had a very fine daybreak?