No Change

Each morning, the perfect blue of the sky reminds me that there will be no change. It is a deep blue just overhead, but fades to a washed out, flat blue near the horizon. The time of day makes little difference to this and the sunset is unremarkable. It is like the atmosphere is thin and weak.

I sit on my porch and let the sun penetrate me, drinking a lukewarm cup of coffee from earlier. The men next door continue to rebuild that house; their tools drone away at the day, ceaseless until evening.

Last night I dreamt that the sky could change, but only if blacked out by moths. When I woke a moth beat itself across my room, hitting the wall repeatedly and rebounding, unable to change, unable to realize that the wall would always be there. It kept me awake for hours, eventually I opened my bedroom door and turned the light on in the hall. Soon the moth was swarming around that orb; I could see it hitting up against the bare bulb. I closed the door and went back to sleep. Towards dawn I woke in a sweat, the heat of the sun already penetrating me.