The Boringbug

It is dark outside! The wind whistles by, carrying tiny droplets of dew that splatter over my palm. I can hear the birds rustling their feathers, settling back into their nests, sheltering their young ones with the gentle hope of tomorrow.

Is it not brazen, this evening? A shadow looms across the sky as clouds veil the rising moon and dim its effervescence from peaking out. Perhaps this is what they call “gloominess”, yet there is a beauty in its stillness, a quiet dignity. The sacred fig and leaves of ashoka being witness to this belief, unmoving, reverent.

The cars in the distance brush by, passing through the rain-slicked roads like whispers in my dream. Their headlights blink briefly through the mist, then disappear, swallowed by the hush that blankets the street. Somewhere, a dog barks once, low and uncertain, then quiets again, as if acknowledging the weight of the air.

The trees sway, not in joy, but in unison and understanding. As though they have seen this kind of night before, a silent pact between earth and sky. The leaves do not chatter; they murmur. The lamplight reflects off them, casting shadows that dance softly on the pavement.

In this moment, everything slows down. Time, breath, thoughts. The world exhales. And I, standing still amidst it all, feel not lost but folded into it, like a footnote in a very old, very patient story.

(c)boringbug