Petrichor in the air – it tastes nostalgic. The skies split asunder again, as torrential rains hail down from the heavens. Tracing its way down windows panes and teary cheeks; the rhythmic drum of water resonates on the snare of the city.
Running for shelter, a sudden ‘stop and smell the roses’ urge. Overcome on buckled knees and bent back, prostrating before the very gods themselves. Questions of purpose, of all that is and will be – of why, when, where and what, sound, in between the ears, in the confines of mental space.
The drumming fades and angel rays spread. They spread the warmth and comfort of illusory promises. The promise of tomorrow and betterment. The promise of love and green grass. The scent of summer sprinkled with picnics and butterflies. Knees raised high in fast paced stride, cracking across the pavement, coat tails caught in the tail-wind. A good time to realise that,
There is nothing there. The universe that birthed from singularities and god i.e. ex nihilio, was never intended for anyone.
From there, the only place to go was everywhere, do everything. Letting go of the consequences and holding on to but a few morals, the possibilities are endless.
Walk like you’ve got someplace to be, even if you still haven’t found it.
There’s petrichor in the air, it tastes like nostalgia.