It is the same Sun. It gets caught between a tree, or between the metallic extensions of modern construction. I like to imagine that it feels suffocated. But it moves away, smiling with optimism. There is always another day to face.
I realize that I have been gripped by claustrophobia, and I projected the same on the Sun. On a brighter day, I might write about its resilience. The Sun, however powerful it might be, has no control on my imagination.
If I talk about you, I talk about the mental story I have written about you – the version which fits in best with MY stories, and project me in a positive light. That version is not YOU.
yet, I’m alone at the core
burning to give more
I serve a purpose, despite
my innate nihilism