In Love

The sun was about to set. He sensed the summery rays gently hitting both his skin and heart.

Her hair was split near the side of her head. Her right bundle of hair cast a shadow on most of her left eye. It trailed down like a waterfall and stopped at chin level. Her left bundle of hair was at the same length, and was tucked behind her ear.

She smiled as if she knew that he loved her. Her cheekbones had a red hue, and were contracted to assume a smile that sat between demure and charming.

With her dark green eyes, she looked through mine, and into my heart. How could someone so easily make you feel like you're on a journey and home at the same time? How can someone instill the dreariest fears and the most gripping hopes just through a gaze? 

He knew his feelings, nothing more, and this was inexplicably enough for him for that moment and all moments to come.

Dream

I had a dream during today.

I woke up on a little cherry twig that laid on the ground atop a moustache. It was shaped with shaving cream, as if to make a statement.

The twig broke, making me accelerate down an endless tunnel of wondrous musical beings and cartoon like demons. And as fractals intertwined in orgasmic harmony and dissolved in a vast sea of silence, I decelerated to a full stop in the middle of an ocean that laid bare and waveless for as long as the eye can see.

Then I was submerged into the water, just enough to get the top of my head wet.

I then drowned, cried, and woke up.

A mistake

The modern man thinks of himself as unique. He thinks that, amidst the chatter and worries of a million others, he stays true to "himself" and does not steer off his "path".

His ego is adamant against the overwhelming torrent of circumstance; his existence is nothing but continuous. He lives in a momentary eternity, till he eventually, rather gracefully transitions into non-existence.

Isn't it eerie that we freak out about death so intensely yet so rarely, and are mostly truly shook by it when we face the thing itself?

Our composition is, so that we do not truly perceive the oceans of future and past surrounding our island of present. Present is what we truly have, and we don't even have much of that.

The modern man is an amalgamation of what he perceives. He is the rock he doesn't notice on the ground, the concept that he understands, the idea that he disregards, the tv show host that he kind of likes.

Yet he is so incredibly comfortable by the rather patched up thing that he calls himself. In his mind, every spool of existence intertwines at a point, and then untangles into meaningless eternity. For him, the knot exists independent of spools. This is a mistake.

The modern man is a mystery.