Candor: Not every day is the same

Some days are a great time to be alive. The sun shines, the birds sing, and I float on wings that sparkle. I feel great. No, I feel freaking awesome: like I imagine Bruce Wayne does, when the sun comes up, and he removes his mask, and the bruises are badges proving that he vanquished evil, accomplished something that changed one life -or many.

I feel as though I could go to Vegas, and every number I play would win, every stock I choose would spike, every lottery ticket I own will reveal the magic number. On these amazing days, nothing can faze me, my favorite tracks will randomly play despite the usually unreliable shuffle feature on my player, the bus driver will smile and nod back when I say “Good morning” and work will feel like a joy. Smile stretching across my face like the colorful flutter of scarves in the sun, I will strut out the front door, through the elevator, and into my cubicle like I am walking the stage toward an audience even Eminem would be jealous of.

Everything I touch turns to gold, my art is beautiful and I find the perfect notes to my songs on the first try. Every word spills like honey onto my computer screen, deliciously exhumed. No shade on my day, nothing can erase the beauty I see, no evil word can destroy my glow, and frankly, no idiot I encounter can slur my mood.

Glorious!!

And some moments, it kicks up a notch. Invincibility. Everything I do or say becomes perfect. Is perfect. Laying on the frosting on cake with care and precision, and my hands are steady as a surgeon. Floating versus walking, confident and cool, like the epitome that immediately sways the world. The rush, the rush!! Pure and sweet, untainted by artificial chemicals, or mind altering outside influences, no this must be even better than such immersions.

This is what sipping the elixir of joy must taste like.

These are the good days, the great days.

The days everyone comes to expect of me, because they occur so frequently. Life is good to me -not perfect, but good. These are the better days.

But there are those days.

Days of rare and spontaneous darkness. Dark in epic proportions, that within my tiny existence, snuffs the light, that usually blazes, and shrinks that inferno to a pin-prick before winking it out. Effort seems meaningless, every step becomes a drag. Liking swimming with weights in the ocean at night, but I am not swimming. Swimming would imply effort.

I am not swimming, I’m sinking, drowning, uncaring, still.

Silent.

It’s almost like rebirth, except in regression for instead of being born, I’m squishing back into a womb, and I hold myself within spindly arms and withered limbs. With a sinkhole in my chest, as I drain out, like sand in an hour glass, but the grains slip away into nothing. Vibrancy dies, color expires, a funeral pal on the day which may not rain or overcast, but might as well have been.

Imagination and musings, like bare cold fingers of leafless trees, clawing at the sky, or the musty dirt of the sepulcher. Scratching at layers suddenly too tight, at wrappings that stifle and suffocate, twisting in a grave of expectations and a coffin of rigidity. Can the tree that falls be heard?

Sometimes the day descends into a figurative night. Labels, like tape over lips, steal my voice, and the screams in my throat remain unheard. Similar to the aftershock of a nuclear blast, the silent stillness, the slight ring in the ears, when even yelling becomes the flapping of lips, and desperate expressions a horrid pantomime.

Then the violence absent in the days, visit my dreams…

Some days are good, many are great, few are dark. All that I wish, is that at the end, the tally of good outweighs bad. Not on average, but on sheer median: that the count or values for dark remain the min, and light remains maximized.

Because the shadows never lasts and the dark fades. With a tip of the scales, the dawn reminds me, once again, that the pendulum sways, and that the contrast allows me to be even more appreciative of the little details, like the brave bloom of a flower in the frigid dune of snow.

The darkness never lasts.

I believe in the dawn.

Thanks to "they" who encourage me to hit "publish" and light candles on my path.
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Published by

opalflame

I am artist, analyst, author, poet, composer, musician to name a few aspects of myself. A bit of a jack of trades, I dabble into many fields that encourage the blossom of imagination and allow me to channel my creativity. I dream vividly and view the world through the lens of optimism and opportunity while acknowledging the ink and shadows.

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