Obscure

"Well the moon's invitation

It's gentle and it's kind

And it leaves everyone alone

And to me that is divine

... 

With its mightiest demonstration

I feel so much less confined "

 --Dr. Dog, Night from the album Critical Equation (2018)

Van Gogh. Vincent. Starry Night over the Rhône. 1888. Arles, France.

I've always despised the concept of feeling microscopic -- the ignorance that flutters from your eyes washes over me in an unhygenic and faulty manner -- because a finch who sheds its feathers can be celebrated; yet, your jewelled demeanour can gleam a lavish stance but I'm left feeling ruined, once more. Insignificance can be splattered against the tile when carried in the wrong pair of crackled hands, and my! Your point has appeared in the spotlight of undergone transformation. 

More than the ornamental status, my autonomy and worth shouldn't be questioned for the supplement of amusement; I'm not the door-knob that flashes, "Do not disturb," in the haze of intoxicated nights. I'm a broke writer, a caring sister, a trifled student, a fixer-upper daughter, an observer, a lover and a woman who has been challenged by the constraints of individuals who perceive me as a trophy to be flaunted as a milestone, rather than the blessed luck of a four-leaf clover. 

Is it too much to ask for a slight reformation? I cannot bear the ideals of an anchor, for the bottom of the ocean trembles in an isolated fit of pallid despondency. How can beings who are a collective of everlasting energy and an amalgamation of stardust, create so much disdain for someone they care about if our existence is undermined by the lapses of time? The world and it's scale is candidly large and there are countless fish that drive to be the object of affection, but don't give me the satisfaction of whispering sweet nothings if I'm just an untold story.

Time cannot be disclosed, for its nature is a supposing and unforgiving force that bends your limbs in every direction until you start to weather from its relentless coercion. I've known the limits of time well-spent and part of me wishes it was reciprocated in the same way. If I am supposed to bask in the rays of sunlight, why is it that I only feel my lungs pooling with the rawness of moonlight -- a potency that weighs down my under-eyes in a discoloured fashion -- even when a smile adorns my face? Can someone give me a god damn, straight answer?