At Night: Reflection

At night I consider the calm open hand filled with the possibility of infinite self-negation, yet an empty reflection defined only by the background brightness which limns it. The low hum of prevarication and pretext coupled with endless numb nothingness which can only be the revelation of incoherence sounding loudly. It heralds the long faces of intrepid endeavoring entrepreneurs carrying on their backs the tenebrous packs of jewel-encrusted absurdity. They trudge dully, cluttered, carrying blindly their self-proclaimed bastions from station to station across the great arid expanse of culture—culture that siphons solutions from the abject adornments borne by their very endeavors. As we stand, or slouch, or succumb, supine, to the pressure of bearing witness to their redundant pilgrimages to the lauded realm of paucity we notice the weight we ourselves carry as it bears down on the balls of our feet, our curving spines, our grated knees. We wonder if our own journeys are not as notable, not as worthy of depiction and circulation and widely-broadcast future eulogisation, but only for a fine fleeting moment before the brilliant chimes of their conspicuous retinue redirect our attention towards the spectacle of their procession into the slowly filling void of self-dissolution. As we surrender to the captivating cascade of contrast-obliterating moments at the precipice of the blinding yawning endlessness, we yearn for a moment for the soft sound of rain and the satisfaction of exhaustion and the empty darkness at night.

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