GOLDEN DAYS

I remember folding paper cranes by the wooden bench in Hawaii, as the twelfth apostle screened my cheek on the twenty-first. Back then, perhaps I was a little different because it seemed as if time was flowing down a river creek as juxtaposed to now, when it's akin to pink going against the freshwater tides.

So much, I adored, to be able to cleanse myself in spiritual appeasement, to be breathing in poetry and to be putting together puzzles every single day, in a labyrinth of the mindless. In a hot and humid day's worth, I feel empty and lacking once more. I feel nothing but unworthy of the person I was. It just feels as if I'm shallow and cheap; black in Summer, when golden was the colour of Winter.

What I would give to just have that sense of satisfactory bliss back.