I can see gray clouds on top of me, moving swiftly, clouding over abruptly. Creating an illusion that only I can spy, like things that match saplings and lively conifers nearby.
I can see the hands of the trees that happily wave at me, with varying shades of brown, juniper and hunter green. The birds on top fly in a chaotic jumble, and at times slapped by the wild winds and dusts right before my very eyes.
I can see scenic rooftops and chimney stacks that look familiar, and walls made up of cold bricks and old, styling moss. The windows are layered with white plain curtains and wooden blinds, which cast only moving shadows every night.
I can see the faraway horizon from my dusty glass window, but not the very object that’s suppose to rise and set on it. And every shrubbery and landscaped vistas seem to conceal, the existing life and beauty that await, and that are hidden from me.
I can see the danger and beauty of emptiness wherever I go. From the noiseless streets that slowly and silently kill my mind and soul; and to the complex roads and lonely distant paths I take, which somehow tell me to get lost and stay.
I wonder how this desolation can become so pleasant to bear, in a matter of three hundred and something olding days. Where stillness brings vibrance to my dull and hectic hours, this, probably is the kind of England that I truly love.
Insideamoronsbrain, 21 Feb 17