Wednesday Morning

Sunrise this morning was so beautiful that I wanted to cry. I called the maid out to look at it because I needed to share it with somebody. I was smiling throughout the whole period I was running. Passers-by thought me insane, but I couldn't help it. How did He think of such a thing? How could such beauty be created? It was splashes of orange and blue; streaks of salmon pink. Everything was painted golden. My eyes were fixed on the sky and I was chasing something unknown. It appears to me I've been doing that for the past few months now. And everything could fall apart. The vessel is barely stitched together; the soul devoid. Daily motions are ritualistic movements. The forehead pressed to the ground, and the eyes cry. Everyday, again and again. The same hand dances, slow and laboriously, and yet furiously unstoppable - what is the underlying mental force? No one's going to understand this. No one can, if they are mere observers. It is only when one is living the nightmare that one can truly comprehend how real it is.

She questions and the answers are curt. Replies become unnecessary and somewhat redundant when the driving forces are anger and confusion.

W h a t
h a v e
w e
d o n e
t o
o u r s e l v e s