Hours of the Day

Boredom strikes at midnight. When everything is quite serene. It creeps on you like a shadow that turns into darkness fond of writing.

Writing strikes at noon, when everything is at its mid, and nothing seems to rise or fall. Just the wind - with its vibrant strength of persistence.

Love strikes out of nowhere when you're the least ready for it, and the most desperate for escape. It dwells on its melancholy and brings upon you naked happiness built on kisses and memories.

Sadness strikes in the morning. When all is new, except your life that feels the same, old and sad, forced to continue growing with the sad world.

Death strikes at midnight. When you are ready to sleep and it is believed that all is well. It haunts like a pause button and just like sleep, takes you into a glorious dream that nothing does sit still. You're left there with your steady breath and all the hours are haunting you like you're still alive.