I BRUSH AGAIN, TODAY RESOLVING TO CHANGE ANYTHING AT ALL. DESPERATELY I VOW, NOT ALL WILL BE THE SAME AS THE DAY BEFORE.

Not All Will Be The Same As The Day Before.

nOT aLL wILL bE tHE sAME aS tHE dAY bEFORE.

N o t a l l w i l l b e a s t h e s a m e a s t h e d a y b e f o r e.

My eyes grow heavy as my mind chews such dreams. Slowly sensation bleeds away as watery paint upon a canvas that refuses colour, only the wet streaks of thoughts and plans that will yet wash away in the light of a new tomorrow.

I would cultivate these barren places were my world my own. Grow gardens of increasing understanding, pluck from their branches and vines ripe and colourful questions. Each sweet bite filled with the pop of seeds I would plant to grow ever more.

Without spent grey hours there would be no colourful bills and shiny coins with which I can prove my right to be. To eat, to live, to find warmth in the cold and to fund expeditions to small but innumerable islands in the vast expanse of the oceans of my ignorance.

How else could I step into other grey places to share in mutual grey smiles to pay for grey food wreathed in the cheapest colours money can buy? To attempt to create colourful meals quickly within the confines of shrinking hours?

How can I remember the rest? There is weather to change, but it lurks behind panes. Teeth pulled, claws clipped, it cannot reach past whirring fans and boiling waters - here there is no weather, only grey temperatures for grey paint and grey work that means nothing and everything.

We are the same, the water and I, kindred who fill what was sculpted for us. Settled and evaporating, day by day, hour by year, each item of time leaving us less than we were before.

Squish, splash, squelch, tick. The impact of soles after the short hop to avoid the wet and cold of a puddle that ekes a small and short existence in a small depression that must for it have been carved.

Step out once more, watch clouds roll or droplets splatter. Snow caress, fog linger, sunlight strike increasingly without reprieve. The backdrop changes even as the destination and journey stagnate.

Count my things, the same as the day before, to make sure I do not forget that which I never leave at home.