The day is young, but the atmosphere speaks that it is old. And in here, where I sit cross legged, I observe the fierce dark sky full of dark clouds, dark thoughts, and dark stars. I reach across the floor for and dawn on my black hoodie. I seek the warmth and comfort that it may provide from this boding place, but the clouds draw closer and the sky seems closer than before, and it is truly not helping. I flip up my hoodie to cover most of my face, that way if I can’t see it, I won’t feel the pressure of the nature closing in around me. But it still hurts to think about it, let it alone feel it. But my hands instinctively flinch into cups to weep, all to cover my face, yet the touch stings even more than the pressure of the forces about me.
And in that moment the clouds rip away, and outcomes the burst of lightning and thunder follows suit. And in my disturbance, I jump out from my sitting position in fear. My face is still scorching in writhing pain. But in returning to my sitting position and hands cupping my face, I don’t feel the pain that was just a moment ago there. In fact, my face now no longer feels of the tender sprung flesh, but rather a cool hardened plastic. I splay my fingers and ply off what I find to be a deep crimson mask. And in my wonder of how it got upon my face, I observe parts of the mask are still molten orange, as if recently pulled from the kiln, or wherever it so came from.
I set my gaze back out to the forces of nature that I am sitting around, and in pure wonder find that the sky is the deepest ocean-blue, and the ever-watchful eye of the sun breathes a pearly glossy white cream about the sky in puffs.
I place this crisp crimson mask back upon my face, and now behold the cruel dark world that I have always known. And the clouds so decide now to shudder off their oily black rain upon the rotten lands. I don’t cherish this world, but I shall walk it for some time longer. Is it worth pulling the mask off again?