morose monday

There is serenity in waiting. How solitude lulls the passing of time, of feeling, of longing. It's not conceding, but rather accepting. That syzygy can happen, when we leave fate to do her weaving. That by releasing our wishes to the winds like a Zoroastrian effigy, we let go of the burden, and discomfort that deciding prescribes. Because certain things are intangible, inexact and ambiguous that to try to grasp it would be like holding sand in your palms.

I will let the occultation occur in its own time. And let the heavens inform me when the alignment is auspicious. For now, I am a satellite, orbiting and oblivious. That a greater path wields me, a subtle gravitation succinct and surreal.

The wind has a chill reminiscent of certain memories. And despite its frigid embrace, there is warmth in its familiarity.