Attempt

Every moment is the fiber, the thread of an evolving story. It may intertwine and anchor, It can loosen and be weak.

A wide-eyed kid made a canvas with a group composed of him. His ears bled in piercing silence. At night, he dreamt of sunbeam.

His presence followed the motion of the thread as it gets braided. At times well and it goes on, sometimes he was only disturbed.

The room was dead empty, where his mind threaded the stories. For him, it is filled, loud, and eerie, with sounds of his threads in agony. He dived his brushes into colors of warmth and tranquility, laid them unto the canvas; his piece that he found flimsy.

When a light wave of air blew, it strummed the abandoned strings. He stirred all the colors into one, hummed a D minor broken hymn.

The flickering sunbeam dimmed, he laid his brush unto the pallet. His painting wept with him. And into nothing, they all faded.

What if that kid had the strong fiber to thread an evolving story? And it intertwined and anchor instead of loosening and be weakly?

Rovic Sipacio