A Receptive Mind

White butterflies

Dance in the luminous sunlight.

Moths attracted to a flame.

If I could grow wings

Feathers white as a Dove

I would soar.

Cast shadows. Shut out

The ticking of the clock

It is all I hear.

I would not say it is deafening.

Irritating, yes.

Eyes are narrowed

As if trudging through bright white snow.

There is no glare here.

Just ticking.

Involuntary twitching now

With every movement of that

Small black hand moving

Around a white background.

Contrasting colours.

Highlights. Shadows. Silhouettes.

Stark contrast.

Silence and sound.

One not possible unless the other absent.

One is everything and one is nothing.

Like indelible black ink

On a soft white blank sheet of paper.

Like dusty white chalk

On a clean black chalkboard.

Limitless in possibilities.

That darn ticking.

Highly sensitive. Always aware.

Self-aware in an oblivious world.

Scattered at times

Like light through a prism.

Reflecting. Ablaze with thoughts.

In my mind.

Reflections.

Play of light and dark.

On the water. Ripples. Waves.

Waves crashing.

Sensitivity like a lighthouse beacon

A faithful constant

On the rocky cliffs in the dark of night.

To bravely navigate the depths of life.

Deep as the oceans.

As vast as outer space.

Is the night sky

Irritated by the light of the stars?

Sensitive to the brilliant white burning of gases?

Vivid suns that burnt out

Long before there was ticking.

“Turn it down” shouts the cosmos

I want peace and silence.

Balance of opposites an enigma.

It is not all black and white.

How spiritless our night skies would seem

Without the stars

How nondescript our lives would be

Without the ticking of the clock

Infinite ticking. Infinite skies.

White clouds.

Wispy ones. Puffy ones.

Moving. Changing. Transforming.

Black clouds.

The loud crack of thunder.

Lightening against the inky sky.

Awestruck.

Mystified.

Mesmerized.

No concept of time.

A void. A blank slate.

An empty space.

Anticipating. Listening.

Ticking. Ticking. Ticking.