Only Questions

By morning, only one helicopter remains. The sun is shining, the sky a painful blue of blissful ignorance. My body aches, like it carries the restless sleep in its bones. I make another cup of coffee, take another few painkillers. Try to write, beg my mind for just an hour's break, just an hour's escape into the fantasy worlds I can paint with my own mindfulness, but rest does not come, the stories infiltrated by despair. A country runs itself into the ground while its leaders watch unable or unwilling to start putting together the scaffolding. I'm buying a car, he says late at night when the riot swells past my window. If the war starts, we go. The apartment across from me is suddenly empty, cleaned out. The moving trucks had a busy weekend, this country had a busy few years, the sky is ignorantly blue.

If nothing matters,
then what does?

You think now's a good time to find out.
Because there might not be much of a later.