Some nights I sit upon my desk, drinking glass after glass and feeling breeze after breeze. My eyes dart back and forth to the ticking time, as though waiting for an occurrence that will never be. Enveloped in glows of moonlight and fluorescence, engrossed in sounds of raindrops harmonizing and walls sighing with content.
Some nights I gather my thoughts. They stretch, swirl, and tangle into knots that form droplets of words, thus blotting the paper upon which they rest.
Some nights I look here and there. I search for triggers everywhere. I yearn for solicitude, for only then do I have proof of consciousness. Some nights, a burdensome state of mind is plotted into cursive letters.
In some midnight hours I bathe myself in dearest solitude, a misjudged saccharine-sweet affair. I wander through shelves of memories; through layers of what ifs and now whats, until the observable edge of sanity is to be touched by my fingertips.
Some nights, I reiterate.
Some nights, I savor reality.
But then after all is said and done, after words have been read and sentences fathomed, this recollection will mean nothing to no one,
for I am just a victim of nostalgia.
Copyright © Imana Gunawan