Monday, April 25, 2011
The Writer Writes
As the sky changes shade from blue to gray and the earth below me rotates my escape, the ever darkening heat feels more and more like a warm bath drowning the day. My enthusiasm has long passed; together, we are going down, heads under water. The struggling is ceaseless and silent; I am alone, just as I always was, but the light is nearly dead and I am nearly alive. My mind turns first to the limited possibilities before me, but descends into the past that the dreary fading sun's soon-ended-rampage always reminds me of. The people give me no chance to consolidate the confused memories I have from a time when I truly believed in them, though they still hover around in my life as distant satellites, they don't recognize me anymore. Every morning has been a new opportunity to keep living, but by night fall I am still dying.