Only Hearing Negative

You said that I was naive,
and I thought that I was strong.

I must graciously express my gratitude to the sky today for it's compliance. Many days, it tries to fight my mood, but this greyness suits me very well, thank you very much.

Of course, there are specks of color impading upon this grey matter like a magnificent song implanted in your eternal consciousness. So, you are stuck playing this song again and again through your words and tempo of step and that way you gesture with your palm facing upward.

These colors are infinitely penetrating: red rainboots, blue raincoats, the yellow lines painted upon the curb. However, this brightness only exists in relativity to the drab rain. On an exemplary spring day, the yellow lines pale in comparison to the sun. And so, due to their complete subjectivity, we can dismiss the colored flecks invading our navy canvas. We can fully regard them as sharp flecks of white noise trouncing upon our "perfect" silence of being.

A man in the Northrop Mall stands on his garbage can pedestal reading a newspaper satire, and so illustrating his own satirical nature. He condemns the rain with a newspaper, and thereby offers himself to the eternal consumption of everything grey and khaki and suburban. I truly hope he can feel the electric regret charging in the air like I can.

"We can never know what to want, because living one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives, nor perfect it in our lives to come... If we only have on life to live, we might as well not have lived at all."
- The Unbearable Lightness of Being