Something is coming from beyond the horizon, but I cannot see it; a dark night deeper and blacker than anything I’ve ever known; a shambling midnight, on broken legs and twisted hips, comes breathlessly at me and awakens a sadness that I cannot explain. I stand with a lump in my throat, filled with the desire to flee, yet curious enough to halt and look over my shoulder.
One small turn and my view upon the future changes. One small turn and I can ignore the spirit of the thing that comes at me.
The world is filled with dead men and dying flowers, sullen crowds and crippled hours, solemn bands and casket drivers, baby cradles and the things that have been and could be…Good God give us purpose
Pain is like a stealthy apparition we can never see coming. Gay chatter ends and we sing out in half-strangled cries until the haunting disappears. Men afraid of the future shut their eyes to all possibility. Mount the boats, sail on the dim sea, and sprinkle the waters with the ashes of their failures every year. Birthday is death day. Regret is the bastard child of a reluctant yet fulfilled promise. In old age we fear to fight against the cyclonic time which comes upon us. We bury the youthfulness of opportunity before its gets a chance to become something…
We battle nothing. Bleak houses or empires. Every second offers the chance to start over. One small turn and our view upon the future changes like Lot at Gomorrah.
Look back into the past of dead leaves and old gutters or brave something ahead of us. Reexamine old wounds and redress ancient injuries. Again, and again and again….
I will move forward.
