There is blood on your hands. The splatter of dreams and hopes and chances that you could have fostered and fed. It’s a sinking ship of ambition on a dry road caked with dust. It’s the coral that has bleached itself in hot weather, knowing the future is coloured a deep crimson red.
There is the darkness that comes by closing the lights and then your eyes and then looking on.
There is nothing.
And then comes morning and the theory of relativity kicks in. You find hope, that blister that stings away the thoughts. Bubble, curdle and burst.
There’s a glaze of sunlight on the ground and you can move again. To churn out dreams that sparkle with the charm of novelty, that germinate out of the morning dew.
Through the day you twist and turn in a maze of pumping blood and slow decay. With each step, unerring, unknowing, you walk towards yesterday’s song. You are living.
You don’t really have a choice but to grow old and with each millisecond that rushes past that’s another ledge you’ve jumped off, another opportunity lost and left behind. And yet, there is hope – that thread of lies, and of deceit that you’ve spun for yourself, that net you want to fall on and climb out of, to stop weaving and to continue, to continue forever.
The neurons are firing all over the place in little zig zags that culminate in command; this is us all growing old. A heaving breath with which we fight life and death and everything in between. Choices found and choices lost to a muddled mind on a foggy day.
What is left as time goes by? The hope, the dreams…the decay.
Do you look back at your life and regret anything? Anything at all? Is that the texture of the passing of time? One parent left, another gone. A friend there, another now unknown. And who are you – the mirror, does it show or does a stranger lock eyes with you instead? And either way what can you do?
Just look, just see, just stare.
Then move, in hopes of change and salvation. But the map of happenings has been drawn. Life will go on as will the day. The die has been cast. The question is can you see it as it falls? Do you know where you stand, under the mess you’ve made or on top of it? For you are filth and the cleaning crew; if you fail you, who is left to please? Can someone make a difference?
There is nothing.
On sifting shores of sand you watch your life fly by, picture by bloody picture. Is your life what you really intended it to be or has it turned into a farce? Do you see your smile stretched in an unwieldy grin? Do you see hurt trailing down your cheeks as the day runs on? Do you feel anything?
The evening comes racing past the sun, and soon your eyes will close. Keep your calm as the sea rocks your raft and ruins your course. For at the end of the day when you close your eyes and take a deep breath you will find, there is nothing. Not darkness, exactly, just the absence of light. You’ve killed yourself again. But there is another dawn. A slice of sunlight to burn the night’s shadows away. Another tunnel of change, idea drenched and waiting. The dreams are so new. It’s a time for hope to return – and who knows, perhaps this time it’ll stay on.