The old piano moans and creaks under my touch. Or perhaps it's my fingers that creak, stiff from years of absence, if you long for something for too many turns of the sundial eventually you bury your ache deep, deep within and pretend it isn't there. It's a way to survive, yes, but not quite to live. I feel another crushing wave approach, it begins by steam rolling your lungs so there is no breath left and dissolving your bones into peanut brittle, what use is seeing the black clouds on the horizon if you cannot outrun them. I make lists, more lists, my room is a pile of lists while the world burns, what good will mountains of paper do at the end of the world?
I cannot outrun these demons, you know. They are always faster, more persistent, they wait me out until I'm too tired to go on, the sink their claws into my shoulders and drag me down until I stop. At what point do we make amends with the ghouls that haunt us, allow them to pass through, look at ourselves in the mirror and say, here you are, and gather the courage to accept that?
It's almost as though I drove all across the land only to find
I was in the car the whole time.
No comments:
Post a Comment