podeamNon-Time
The street was a non-street, the time being not there. A very comfortable orange clinical glow, the reassurance of comfortable constantness, a very singaporean glow. Five? Six? in the morning, the minutes don’t matter; the fact that there was no time in that timeless walk down the non-street was all that was.
Rain. Branches of lightning, reaching across the sky. Not down, but across. The winds whipped up, the coast was just a minute away. Blustery, perhaps, but blustery’s too unromantic a word, for the emotive non-time. Tempestuous. Tempestuous is a good word. The churning and broiling of air-tides under a uniformly granite sky. Clouds clouding even the ever-glow of the singaporean glow usually luminescent against the dawn-dusk sky.
Granite too is not that good a word. Marble? but it was too dark. Dark. Dark, yet lit from within. Incandescent. It was like the heavens were smothered yet unsmothered by marble-granite.
I hate it when things are beyond me. When potential failure is not of my own fault. If it were, I would destroy my self. Destroy, and rebuild a better self, for the next success. But what can I do now?
Tempestuous blustery rage.
The whipping of winds and the whipping of rains and the whipping of errant branches whipping from the trees, it was a controlled-free-fall. Through what I could not control. But did control, by being there. By choosing to be there.
But what if choice isn’t a choice?