The evening sky was beautiful. Grey oppressive clouds formed a cocoon of obscurity over the world, black trees like fragile metalwork, like paper cutouts, arranged themselves in perfect composition. The road was a continuous brushstroke of ink and the taillights of cars trailed in lines, red roses sprung from asphalt. Suspended in the air were minute lanterns, white fairy beacons heralding our procession. And the most glorious touch was a strip of cerulean blue, rich and brilliant, against the ominous grey hand stretching for the horizon.
My senses play games with me, bewitch me at odd hours, lead me into strange habits - I write to capture them in words, in linguistic imagery, I paint to capture them in form and colour, to invite the world into my rapture. I know I seem strange to some of my peers, my behaviour and airs are a little off-putting. They regard me as some eccentric who tinkers with words, pronounces synonyms for them in english class, waxes deliriously on subjects they couldn't give a damn about and generally estranges myself from them, embedded in a world of books and esoteric art, flummoxing films and peculiar tastes. Not the outlandish shocking kind, but an oddity attenuated to the music of a different sphere.
But at this moment, I couldn't give a damn what they think. I pity them that their lives run on such narrow tracks, that they are content with the mundane, that they can't see the innate beauty in every second of the world, that they can't feel the spirit of transformation and transcendence.
Looking out into that kingfisher blue, into the halo of streetlights that absorb some eerie magic, my world is enriched. I crawled from the womb hungry for experience, thirsty for beauty; a vampiric lust to absorb the ephemeral wonders within me. Even when my body is stationery, my mind transverses all boundaries. And the world in its construction, its mystery, is a playground for the child to frolic; a feast to satiate the most divine of famines.