What's the obsession with the vast churning creatures we call the sea
Is it because we can't touch every square inch of it because we know that we will never find the secrets that have been finely dusted in the sand at the bottom of unimaginable depths and I wonder
About stoplights at night time I see them and I wonder how many people have been stuck here wishing the light would turn green and how many others sat behind the wheel and wished that it wouldn't
Because I have an obsession with driving at night you can see all the lights a little brighter than normal and the way the yellow seeps through curtains in a way that can only be described as warm
because inside of those houses behind the window there is life
And maybe it isn't perfect perhaps the person behind the blinds is broken but yesterday they laughed so hard their stomach hurt or maybe in two days they'll fall in love
I'm obsessed with the night because it feels like love it is dark and confusing and scary
But every star seems to be whispering the same message
And Why do we have an obsession with stars these lights burning wishes up faster than hydrogen gas so far away that it takes countless years for them to become visible to us and will take countless more for them to stop
But it breaks my heart that sunrises don't get the same fame as sunsets for some reason we are too infatuated with the way the sky looks when a day comes to an end that we cannot find the energy to see the beauty in the beginning
At eleven years old I snuck out of a window so I could sit on a balcony to watch the city at night
I preferred the strange lights and soft engines humming to the black silence of the room
Watching the life like it was inside of a snow globe that I wouldn't dare shake
The music of blinking signs and drumbeats of broken stoplight timers ceaselessly repeating the cycle of stop and go and the lyrics were in the people
The people inside of taxis or behind the curtains or they're watching the sea fight the shore for acceptance or perhaps they're fast asleep feeling safe or even just maybe someone else snuck out to balance on the rail and watch the black words inking themselves to the rhythm of typewriters on the paper of humanity.
