Prose Poem: Blue Writing

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All shades of blue stretched over my head, from azure to ultramarine. A silver-blue hoarfrost covered faded meadows. Roadside trees are tinted blue, and the running train’s trembling shadow gleams blue sapphire. My day, what will you be about?

I wish I put my thoughts in order, but they are all about freedom, about the triumph of the sublime over our plans and expectations.

Wet asphalt shines blue at railroad crossings, and frost-powdered fields are framed by distant blue mountains.

All things are good the way they are while I’m chasing my train’s shadow, trying to catch that only mood worth to live with today.

The azure sky shines brighter through gloomy trees, anticipating the celebration of the horizon framed with distant bronze-illuminated mountains and a belltower standing in a sunbeam among morning mist. The sky opens, the truth hides.

Blue is the color of ancient truth, the sign of possessing a faraway, rare, celestial knowledge immutable amidst changes.

My writing is a form of divination by an arcane book the world was created with, the book whose only law revealed says:

«There are no laws, no plans, no rules besides the secret power in your glance. The truth is what you’re writing now: become yourself, face the rising sun, make all things new today.»

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