Future/Sea

Where is this going? This lot.

Are the days going to end, abruptly, without fanfare?

I can see only so far into the future, and then ocean. A deep sea of memories, desires, expectations and fears. Always fears. Eternal, and deep.

I can look behind me and see the road, in all its barren spectacle, noticing the people and the choices, I can see the road, and I can see where I stand, or sit. In this room, here I sit pondering the future. I can see the future a few weeks from now, where the road turns slowly, but surely to sand. The sand is unstable, unloving, unrewarding, uninhabitable, and it droops slowly to the great black ocean of uncertainty, plunging my head wet below the surface, eyes closed, to drown surely and forever in loss.

Effortlessly I wander the road, not taking notice, taking the wrong forks, wearing the wrong shoes. Without a care in the world - even though that ocean looms on the horizon - to strike me.

Where would I be without this resentment?

Is it resentment?

Is it not fear? Nausea? Tiredness. Am I so tired of the world and all the people in it that I can't bring myself to feel for people - bring myself to put effort into making people like me? Will people like me. Does it matter if they do? Am I a real person after all? Am I not a creation of some other or other and eternally in that shadow?

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I think the world will end in the dead of night and I will be there, floating in the ocean while the bombs fall, feeling the flash, the warm glow blinding me, mouth agape, the sea churning in ironic ecstasy - rumbling deep within the gut, a long harboured wish to see it all gone. Rotten and empty streets filled with fire. I will float and hear the water burble around my ears, and drip into my eyelids, I will hear the planes drop their bombs, all over the cities, and flash, and over, and crash and the rocky mountain ranges of the country become just as civilised as the cities in an instant. The wilderness remains unchanged in its savagery - and the wild men roam freely in forests.Poor child. Your papa can't do anything but crawl under tables the same as everyone, he is just as frightened. He lived through it the first time. Worse times to come. Hope for a quick fire, hope for a quick death. It is amazing how in real life tragedy is silent. There is no orchestra out here floating alongside. (Feel the tapping of the keys, like the lapping of waves) there is no orchestra playing as the heroes crash under the weight of buildings, there is only me now, silent in this sea (hearing the keys lapping against my chest). The bombs make heavy thuds, but no other sound other than that of the water gently leaping and tossing my long hair (for I grew it).

Once everything is silent and the planes are in the water and the fires are gently burning I swim ashore, so softly naked rubbing against the sand, and I crawl so slyly over the sands and the ash collects in my hands and drowns my face so that I can hardly see, and and all is silent. Silent always, like god intended, no noise.