Advent

I pull down the blinds. I never do that; I know I do it in anger. The dawn outside is the most beautiful one I've seen all summer, it is to no avail. The apartment remains dark.

The island was so beautiful, the sunset streaming rainbows across the water, clouds billowing along pine-covered horizons, it was no use. I took long strokes through the cold water, again and again until the sprained wrist fell heavy at my side. It did not satisfy. I couldn't put my finger on it--was this not exactly what I long for, the nearness to nature, the exquisite splendor of Life in its most basic form? I left annoyed.

I am lost. I thought I could always be found on a midsummer's night, but I am numb now. Back in the city, the streets are quietly rowdy, only kids couldn't afford to leave for greener pastures. The wind died down, morning is blood red outside my window. I pull down the blinds.

I don't know what it is I am looking for.