Regression. fleeting.

The time before twilight when the sun’s painful light are all seeped in sepia wall paper, when the hue is just about to turn from mild orange to bluish black and when every glance is a ticket to regression, is my favorite hour in this sweaty season. It is when I’d usually stroll amidst the persistence of the sun and the haste of the heavens, walking kilometers of jigsaw roads off to somewhere. The only thing in mind would be shelter.

The old rusty poso with its tarnished bark looked perfect for a postcard that could remind you of ice drop bells in the heat of the afternoon, dribbling noise of outsiders coming over for revenge in the pseudo-court and that swift peddling sound of first time toddler bikers. It makes me forget of the rotten smell of this filthy poso. Small white flowers somewhat daring the sun seemed queer for I know they’re of the unpopular class but then again, their subtle beauty pasted in between of the greens itches my eye that tickles my finger to go pick them but considering that it is the sole survivor of my mom’s green thumb frustration, I just couldn’t. It’s a painful knot in my chest. Things that throb in mind but blocks the throat from sounding it out. It’s when you cannot come into terms with your ideals, the path to nothingness.

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