Transition

You're lying down on a cold, hard and rude rooftop of an aborted building that will probably never see completion, staring at the stars and wondering why they seem to be shining so bright tonight, and why they don't shine on you favourably. You sigh a deep sigh and resignation reigns you in and relaxes you; and then you ask yourself - Why? Why does it matter? Does it matter? Does anything matter?

You ask yourself questions that you know the answers to, whose alternatives you know of and wish that the alternatives not risky, because you fear regret. You know the answers, and you've known them since questions found their way into your once aloof existence, but more often than not, you deny yourself any knowledge of them. Denial gives you time - time for things to change, for possibilities to develop and for irrelevant lies to cloak reality. You lie to yourself everyday.

You shift uncomfortably and the sharp, small chips of stone that carpet the rooftop sting your back and you find relief in pain. A cool breeze licks your face, whets your appetite for more, and you forget that there are things to be thought about. Thoughts hover about your head, but you're not ready to let them in yet. Relief is a deterrent, and reality will have to wait outside.

Slowly, as the effect of the changed state recedes, thoughts sneak their way in while you trip on thoughtlessness, and you're not aware of it, but you've started thinking things over.

The high ceases and objectivity sets in. You think (and not muddle) things through, and realise what's to be done and know why there's nothing else that suits your purpose more than what you'd decided on long before you knew you'd decided.

You smile and sit up abruptly. Some pebbles take leave of your back, and you shake the rest off. You stand up straight and mutter a muted word of thanks to the night. The moon is full and you stretch your arms and take in the moonlight, absorbing doses of mythical stimulants. They work for you, and that's all you care about.

You turn around to begin your journey across the in the rooftop, down unethically separated steps and through the door-less arch that serves as an entrance to the forgotten building. You pause and increase the volume of the music to its maximum limit, and your ears protest, but to no avail. The music drowns all doubts that might remain, and prevents any more from sneaking in. You walk tall, with a decisive step and an emotionless face; not wondering how long this will last.

You don't know it yet, but you'll be back tomorrow.
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