Is it wrong to fantasize
about the mundane,
the boring stillness of
absolute nothingness,
amid the swirling madness
of reality?
I don’t think so.
Especially when madness
seems commonplace and
stillness and calmness are
the foreigners in a strange
land.
I long for beige,
manilla,
khaki,
sepia;
away from the burning Reds and Blues
in constant flashing neon.
With age comes an appreciation
for the slowness of things,
glacial movement being profoundly
more interesting than sudden changes
in direction and course.
Look
at
that
paint
dry…
I do like the occasional
fireworks display, in the distance,
the explosions so distant they are
merely popping sounds, but
up close; I’m frayed to my last.
The rumble is an arrogance of sound
I can no longer tolerate.
Calmness absent mediocrity,
Stillness absent rage,
Passion absent jealousy,
Nothingness absent vacancy.
Space, empty,
containing multitudes.
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