converging realities

I found this lingering on my computer. I'd forgotten that I had written it.

"The cold sun outside the window is all that seems real in these moments, when the room is so dark and gray and the light that filters in seems to have volumes of words frozen inside it, as if it can almost whisper them, but it hasn’t enough life yet, and maybe, if you are faithful, and watch for long enough, it will divulge its secrets. So in stagnance I sit, and wait for the sun’s luminous knowledge to pour into me, because even the strongest stagnance couldn’t survive that miracle. Speak, Sun.
Downstairs, lives are moving, each in their different worlds. Accepting that moving through life is a form of convergence of hundreds of realities, is key here. Often I have sat and watched people live as if there was ever one reality. Such petty games. Such angry hearts. Step in between the lines, where all that is truth dances together."

Sun spots

Friday night like a dream, a hazy memory in the morning.
Pure trust, with speckles like sun spots, where others have scarred it before, that fade with time and care, like old photographs in the sun.

Dreamlike in nature, drifting, jumping-dancing down side streets and alleys.
"Always" echoing on the wind,
You echoing off the walls.