Anything I write that is remotely poetic feels pretentious.
Tonight on the train home, I dozed off and woke up between stations and outside was completely black, with shadows of stuff on the side of the tracks flying by the window. It was distinctly unnerving, and not just because I wasn't sure if I'd missed my stop or not. I couldn't even tell if we were passing under trees or over water.
This dismal illusion was shattered when we got to the next station.
When I got off the train at Skerries, however, the night sky was curiously blue.
I was thinking about how I was going to say how this made me feel when I reached my front door, realised I hadn't got my keys, couldn't get in the house, my phone was out of battery and no-one would answer the door.
Pale blue horizons and dark blue skies begin to mean less and less when you're stuck outside in the cold.
There is no lesson in this tale.