Between Nabokov and the Rain

Uneventful days don't exist; our eyes are simply poorly opened. The rain trickles down, stubbornly, coldly, like a mismarried spouse's manipulative stare. I'm not intelligent enough to wear real shoes. I will be sick again. She -- she glows in the falling rain, huddled under a salvific overpass, at the front of this lifeless crowd of eight or nine, like an angel leading a moveless walk towards paradise. Her hands are small. Her face is saving a secret smile. I walk through the entrance doors and it's like the whole world is morosely insulated: senilely bent over computers, passionlessly half-absorbed in useless studies, some in near-catatonic stares, eyes weeping with a whispering confession: why today? why today? I can't decide who is worse off: those so clearly affected by the infinite freezing raindrops, or those few, like the slow-typing black girl sitting with an empty stare next to me, who seem completely undiluted, unchanged, as if nothing at all were happening around them, and life itself is nothing more than letting the machine work itself in perpetuity. Until, of course, that one day when the system dies from fatigue and the dust from decomposition reveals a life utterly wasted, the tragic revelation too late for an ascertaining mind that there really was potential here. For to be human, if one were to judge on the basis of how the world is, means to waste oneself, to bide one's time until the eternal N/A is stamped on the nonentities that once breathed the air God had firsted breathed into being.

Not a smile in sight. It's as if happiness were ashamed of the faces it held. Still style holds its sway: logos and flashy clothes glitter throughout space, still the narcoleptic attempt to make oneself shine, hold oneself right, walk with a little forced dignity. My face is unshaven, my eyes are burning, the whole world is exhausted, drowned in listlessness, and even though it seems that everything is wrong -- even though, the whole world brims with perfection, and nothing at all needs be changed. Even darkness has its own secret light.

Epiphany

It was an hour after your splendor broke me
That I found myself alone in a cloud of ghosts.
Some anonymous place, where fake-lights drizzled down,
Grazing the warm summer night walkways,
Overtaken by cricket songs and dying winds,
I walked my way unhurried, viscous-stepped,
Thinking of the worlds of your warmish eyes.
At intervals the selves around were born,
At intervals I was born in love in them.
A man unknown was sitting at the square
With a violin, tearing through the shadowed clouds above,
And suddenly the point was touched
Where intoxication reached its peak and the world
Emanated with a burning, glowing wonder:
As I listened,
To him, the crickets, souls of strangers,
The pale wind, the whispering night,
And the sigh of God that blessed it all
I grasped at last what made you shine,
And I hurried once more to the sanctuary
That held your holy smile.