Bad Things

For short moments, it seems all is quiet. There's a slight unease in my muscles, but it could just be the weather, it could just be the passing winds and I step into obvious traps thinking myself invincible. But oh how quickly the air can be knocked out of you, and you curse your carelessness. Time is running out, and part of me longs for it. Perhaps everything will be still on the other side, perhaps the quiet calm will not be an illusion but an open door to other views.

Someday I will look back on this time in patronizing fondness. You build mountains out of grains of sand. Wait for the tide to wash your castle out to sea.