The Ordinary

Sourced from: (https://parlourprojects.com/blogs/viewing-rooms/still-here)

Few words are said about an ordinary day; 
The sun stretches its rays to clear out the dark shadows left behind by the moon;
Trees lose their leaves.
Changing into hues of the brightest yellows, enough to put an entire lemon orchard to shame. And reds, the deep and brilliant flesh of a pomegranate; 
Somewhere in the distance, a tap is running, a pan is sizzling, dogs are barking, 
In the street below, someone walks past whistling a tune that no longer plays on the radio;
It is a familiar tune, a comforting tune. 

Crickets bruise the air, taking the place of the afternoon silence. 
Evening rolls across the land like a thick Persian Rug woven together with thousands of pink, orange, and purple threads.
It's just an ordinary day. 
We never talk about the ordinary. 
There is a fear of the ordinary like something is not noteworthy until it is extraordinary.
And yet the graceful simplicity of time passing on an ordinary day, allowing us to exist, making us realise our existence—is extraordinary.
In the end, extraordinary lies in the eyes of the beholder. 

SP.