Foggy Times & Rainy Words

Never has oil on water appeared to me as a vision of a city. Nor has a forest occurred to be a glimpse of a precluded sight supposedly revealing to one the splendor of pearly-golden embroidery. None of these potentially enlightening imageries has ever communicated anything other than how one could reimagine the perplexing sense of seasons being strangely interchangeable, yet in the manner that does and does not evoke times bygone.

Once the warmth of an early fall evening felt as a painful nostalgia for something one could not fathom. Now, it can be sensed in the hollowness in which vast avenues talk about the feeling of abandonment despite a round-the-clock heavy traffic buzz.  To be capable of empathizing with their lament is nothing new. And yet, to recognize in the apparent reverberation the limits of that capability might not be entirely familiar, but certainly not alien.

The vapor on a sultry afternoon, when coolness in the air relieved us from the increase in temperature, brings a sense of stultifying smell, only for a moment establishing a deceitful conquest. It was soon to be dissolved in the freshness of the friendly rain. Neither could one, nor want to revamp the odors from the past nostalgic nights. Instead, one sees the glow in the sound of the subtonic hi-fi poetics.

If all literature were Literature, no letters would ever be spilled across the page to prove either that or the opposite. Moments of bewilderment sometimes feel like ages. When the fog starts thinning, what previously felt as oppressive as it got not only feels so no more, but is now something that requires no words to either describe or explain it. The words are just re-placed into a different realm.