It’s been said that writers breathe in sighs and less oxygen permeates the brain because of it. Today, there are several reasons to be sad and yet every step I am taking is about a story I want to tell, hoping to see light… I sit on the sofa and it absorbs my grief; my fingers meet rugged weaves that now feel what I feel. Sigh.

How to describe two beautiful eyes looking out from a window soaked in sun and somehow still dim without inflicting harm on the image? Everyone must accept their lot in life and somehow, I still refuse the hand I’ve been dealt. Should I be proud if I am dirty? Would I be proud if no one believes what I believe in?
I let go of these thoughts when I feel the sun warming my hand. That elusive happiness will be felt not in sighs but in smiles when I find it.

Text: © Lucius Bod
Image: © Day Donaldson/Flickr