Cold. Play.

If only we could
Capture each moment in a jar.
As fireflies they would
Allow us to see who we are.

While holding the light
Every existence would be clear.
But be wary the sight;
Fireflies die, meaning disappears.

The time when we hold that moment in our hands
Is as fleeting and delicate as any of the other strands.





I sit here comfortably enveloped in faux-suede, back numb, stomach full, legs extended and at rest, toes in an icy winter's storm, as Coldplay is before me, doing what they do best. Their music explodes around my head, unlocked from a shiny, circular prison and let loose through these mesh covered boxes.

My toes are motionless, possibly frozen now, as Coldplay continues to ease. I dare not move them; this feeling is much too fleeting.

To my left is a blinded window, save for the vertical cracks where light squeezes through. Within one of the wider crevasses I see grey; the winter storm picks up. The grey has eaten the blue. Color devoured. A breeze closes the crack; this feeling is much too fleeting.

It seems my senses have all joined, becoming one in this moment. This moment is this feeling. This feeling is this moment. How fleeting.

A siren screams through the cracks. I lost my train of thought.
My toes are still cold; off goes the air conditioner.

How fleeting.