The gallery is decked up with moving images.
Some, mere moods,
Portals in the fleeting walls of smoke;
Some, deep emotions,
Etched on the honeycombed wells underneath.
Some, inexplicable moments,
Haphazardly hanging like cloudy slides from the smoke to the wells.
Precarious.
On Sundays,
I often come here for a saunter.
Morning breath fresh in its stale inertia;
Suffused sunlight,
Filtered through mustard curtains,
And then again through my eyelids,
Illuminates the nooks and crannies;
I so love exploring.
There’s no clock in the gallery.
Yet, It’s a matter of beauty, time;
Sectioning the gallery with its ever morphing prongs.
And then there are Some,
Bunched together,
That seem to run through all sections,
A rubber band holding together the straws.
Ah, time and it’s frivolities!
It’s the place I visit most often.
Nostalgia is the gravity that it bends for;
Sometimes,
Almost the black hole to never return from.
Often,
Maybe the star binding the self together.
In my home I live happily alone.
Yet here,
Within these Somes,
I’m surrounded by many others.
My own galaxy of people.
And yet,
When I open my eyes,
Alone turns to lonely.
Is loneliness then, the incestuous love of nostalgia?
Destined to birth from one another.
The secret ouroboros of the eternal mind.
For loneliness is relative,
Albeit once-removed,
To the already deceased sections
Of time: the past.
Does loneliness then have a life,
In the mind that lives in the now?
For without relativity,
What’s absolute is the lone self.
Today though,
Is Sunday.
And today,
Will never be today;
Only different yesterdays.
And so, I’ll be lonely,
Till I awaken again.
It’s Sunday again! The day that takes on a different mood come noon and night. It’s a reflective day really. And what better to reflect on than the ample memories we accumulate in life? For me it’s like an unending catalogue, a physics dimension I can access only with closed eyes. But with eyes closed I’m alone. And alone + nostalgia often equals lonely. So then lonely is just an equation rooted in the past, the memories that seem so real on Sunday’s. And alone, is just the truth of the now.
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