by Chukwukwe Eugenia Adaku

Blue to gold; gold to gray; gray to purple; purple to black. The sun always sets with an incessant march to darkness, leaving behind the bright rays of decency and beauty with which the day glistens and gleams. Dusk falls with conviction, and twilight descends with an indefatigable lethargy that creeps along slowly until the
streetlights become at once visible–how curious it is that they never snap on as if someone somewhere flipped some sort of switch, but that they merely come into illuminated focus. Do you ever notice that they’re there except in the night?


Perhaps by Chukwukwe Eugenia Adaku

Now is the time between hope and despair, as the curtain falls on the theatrical stage that is life. It is in moments between day and night, where the purple-hearted twilight cannot decide whether to inhale or exhale, that with bated breath we retire to our lonely souls, the only retreat we know. The illusion of clarity is as starkly profound as the mythos of chaos, yet neither exists in anything greater than one’s perception. Tangibility can only be found in the sharp steel edges of razors and the soft wetness of flushed cheeks stained with streaks of tears,
neither giving a sense of placation or restitution. Both are too immediate to be considered, and so we wander further and further into ourselves; numb without apathy.


On love and magnanimity 

The further we burrow the more the pillars crumble, but whether there is rubble left behind is, too, a matter of perception–perhaps these pillars dissolve as they cascade into themselves, floating beyond something seen and felt and heard like the last quiet whispers of hope with the setting sun. Night is a time for quietness, but there is nobody there to whisper soothing sounds into your ear as you reluctantly close your eyes. To sleep, perchance to dream; there is no rub in the unyielding realm of metatheatrics, where the only true critic is oneself. This is the way the world ends: not with a bang
but with a whisper. It is with drooping eyelids and crestfallen hands relieving themselves of clenched fingers that the day continues on, the hours until morning dripping like a viscous liquid from the small pores of a sieve. But when we awake, what do we think of next? The day never endures, and the heart can only be felt beating in the sunlight. Do we die each night, only to be resurrected by the applause of the audience cheering our performance each morning? Life is far too dramatic. I am no exception.

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