I stood by a lonely shore. Lazy splashes of wave found the few rocks, and lapped against the sand. Far away, the sun drowned. I did not move to rescue it, there is no saving the day. Some days are irredeemable.
Perhaps I was suffering from melancholy. They say that sunsets are perilous to the depressive.
I waited for any emotion to surface, fear, anger, or hatred to speak to this act of giving up, the surrender of the sun. Why can the sun retire, when I cannot? I waited for love to come, and make me fall for that plain beautiful sight. To fall in waters with it; the dying, drowning and falling sun, us, escaping from horizon together, but I felt nothing, nothing at all.
So I stood there, by a lonely shore, staring blankly, apathetically, feeling dissociated and unconcerned, at a star, losing its glow.
Perhaps I was suffering from melancholy. They say that sunsets are perilous to the depressive.
I waited for any emotion to surface, fear, anger, or hatred to speak to this act of giving up, the surrender of the sun. Why can the sun retire, when I cannot? I waited for love to come, and make me fall for that plain beautiful sight. To fall in waters with it; the dying, drowning and falling sun, us, escaping from horizon together, but I felt nothing, nothing at all.
So I stood there, by a lonely shore, staring blankly, apathetically, feeling dissociated and unconcerned, at a star, losing its glow.
