Unmoving, Unmoved.

That evening, I lay, my windpipe the breadth of a drinking straw. My pulse was thumping in my ears, yet my eyelids, curiously, closing.

I watched, unmoving, the sky, as it changed from blue to yellow ochre, then to a streaked burnt sienna and scarlet, which quickly gave way to indigo.

I didn’t bother getting up to switch on a light; I merely watched.

I watched, unmoving, wondering, whether the   uproar within had finally conquered. It left me not only unmoving, but also unmoved, by the silent revolution before me.

Author: emphadiate

Med student, chai lover, avid reader. Daydreamer extraordinaire. Slightly imbalanced.

6 thoughts on “Unmoving, Unmoved.”

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