It is during the occasional night wherein I find myself flipping and flailing anxiously in an artificially heated room, like the awkward first pancake, a predecessor to a promising batch.
It is during such nights that I notice that the longer I keep open my eyes, the darker a room seems to get.
And it does not dim like an obedient screen, but rather travels like liquid of the wild, seeping from the corner of my crease,
where my two sets of lashes meet,
and travels over my milky, desolate planes,
desperate to find and fondle my pupil.
And it is through this searingly painful quest of keeping my eyes open for an unnatural amount of time, in order to humour the dark matter, give the damn being a chance,
It is during these moderately rare moments that I notice how crisply I see the contents of my room sit,
The contents that have been watching me all along!
Darkness does not solely breed ignorance but rather gifts clarity as I have never seen my lightbulb in slumber
so vividly!
And it has been so round and crisp like an electric pink lady,
All along!
Many tutt at the foolishness of tunnel vision, as it blocks out the bigger picture and the common sense that comes with.
But perhaps one must forget the rest of the world occasionally
In order to realise, in all of its depth and intricacies,
Who has been sleeping at their feet,
Or lighting up their room,
Or holding their hand,
Or looking back into their infuriatingly clear eyes,
all along!
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