There are the days which become a burden upon the backs of all those who find themselves writhing beneath them: The delicately sharding sunlight of Severity shining down from elevations disallowed to those toiling below. There has never been a need for them and therefore they remain resistantly tangled in a disused disarray: Disfigured and dismantled, they the most deliberate and beautiful, they who resist and remain spangled in that delightfulness too oft-ignored.
There are the days in which a Dandelion persists as the most heralded of blooms: That atmosphere feels a certain honor as their pollens choose these damaged airs as the solitary agent for a dispersal: A reverence regenerated, the second birth for that most hallowed of creations, a floral pattern swathed across fields heretofore held with remorse since Yesterday's denial of purchase for Residency's completion.
There are the days in which that commonality of Sense becomes nothing less than a sickening befuddlement held collectively as some misled manner of joyous Truth: There was nothing ever fun about it: The raucousness of that parade trailing falsely behind a standard tarnished, pheromones now perfumed with the pollution of preposterousness, signals lost amidst an atmosphere thickened by the reverberations of discordant uselessness disguised as well-wished fact.
Today is a day in which all those before it are rendered irrelevant: A blankful reimposition as the result of a Cleansing amnestic: The presence of mind having found itself thoughtlessly discarded for want of something newfound and adored. They shall be contrived once more: Skipping within a unison contorted, the Dandelion sways to a rhythm corrupted by the absolute absence of meaningfulness in contemporary times: An atmosphere never clearer: They who remain resistive amidst shadows awake to discover crowns upon their brows and the wisp of infinite appreciations woven into the cloth of their condition.
There are the days and there are these: To revel is to be resigned.