some kind of poetry

In the morning… some mornings… the last thing she wanted was to sit and confront the emptiness. It was monumental and despairing and so gut wrenchingly existential that she had a hard time relating to anybody or anything for hours after. In these glowing sunless mornings she felt exceedingly quiet… exceedingly still… exceedingly removed. There was nothing for her to feel and she would dwell on that… blanket herself in the numbing cold and drift into some deep internal contemplation. Slowly splintered color comes… in waves… in particles… in ideas. She starts to warm… words sprout and collect themselves in phrases… outside the sun… running in short sprints… some kind of poetry is born.