Convolution

I awoke this morning with a startling bolt of energy, surprising myself, knowing well that I had only had about four hours of sleep. I suppose it comes naturally with knowing you have eight minutes to get to class. As I headed down the stairs, I was struck with a most awesome sight. With the time change over, the sun has started rising later than just a week ago, and at this time it was something to behold. It was a sort of deep azure, with the sparse clouds a deep color that can only be described as that of rage fading to that of nothing. And as I walked down those steps, the world closed back in around me. From the third floor, the sky was limitless, its beauty untamed and expansive. By the time my feet were back on the ground, and my imagination similarly floored, the heavenly canopy was contained by impending and malicious buildings to the only the area above me. By the time I reached my class, the sky wasn't worth looking at. Civilization had taken it over. Nor were my thoughts worth thinking. Memories were occupying a country where they are not welcome.

With the sky gone, and its pleasing distractive property exhausted, there was nothing left to see, and so my mind's eye turned inward. And it is here that the antithesis of the morning sky resides. Where the pure cyan of that lofty expanse held nothing but promise and possibility, my thoughts have none. They seem content on sedation, and they focus on what could change, but won't. Day dreaming about events long since passed, or inane contingencies of days too soon approaching, leave the head exhausted. And it is in the exhaustion that relief finally comes, for a self-contemplating soul needs a break from what it has become. A chance to just gaze at the sky.