FIREWORKS—A PROSE

I woke up in a jolt. There was a loud bang outside. The digital clock on my nightstand was beaming 11:11. My eyes hurt by that small amount of glow illuminating my room. The whistling sound continued. Only then did I realize they were fireworks. Each lambent strike towards the sky sent flashes of colors at my window—like fireflies. An excruciating pain suddenly exploded inside my chest as I stood up and watch the display.

I have always talked about you in metaphors but fireworks would always be my favorite analogy of you.

I was suddenly back in Point Zéro Des Routes De France where you told me that fireworks are too beautiful to last. You sighed while saying that it’s a shame that after showing off its beauty, it will be gone just like that—dissipating into the thin air; back into ashes it once was. Poof! As if nothing happened.

Fireworks reflect a kaleidoscope of chroma in your eyes. It won’t die even after all of the crackers sizzle out. Your very existence is my favorite sound just like how each sparklers burst across the horizon. You are all this kinds of light that help me get through the dark. Even after the last blaze vanish, you remain. Even I close my eyes, I still see you. I hear you in those split seconds before fireworks burn into another. Again and again—in between echoes.

MARK 5:36

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