We walk, and we carry on walking across the lengths of this desolate world. Counting the stars and the steps taken, blistered feet and weathered minds. Something whispers in our ears during those cold, shivering nights; when the winds howl and the true wild sleeps. Bodies close, resting together, living as one like an ant colony. Needing the heat and needing to acknowledge those distinctive, most personal leads. There are days when the sun pours down, and days when the steaming rain beats silt and sand. Looking to the horizon and into the deep valleys – onwards towards an outpost, hope in hand of the life that might dutifully follow. For we live in desperate, yet revered hope.
Beside Broken Memories
It was a chilly day in the depths of winter, made even colder by the mist that rose from the banks of the nearby river. I liked mornings like this, the calmness of them, the even tone that seemed to ruminate through each breeze. Even here in the country, where this was an entirely average January day, there seemed to be something special about it. I saw it in the way the grass held itself, frost clinging to it. And in the way the birds swooped throughout the air, as if it wasn’t there at all. It was almost something you can touch. That elusive force that holds all things together, from the highest reaches of the sky, to the depths of our freezing river. I’m not talking about gravity, or dark matter – nothing like that. But, something less defined, something that doesn’t have numerical values, or written rules to abide by. A malleable effect, constantly changing to the shape of the world. It’s strange that, isn’t it?
“Frederich, here!” I shouted, as Frederich, my little Spaniel launched himself into the freezing water.
He ran over to me, soaking wet, muddy, and panting. “Yeah, yeah, I get it, you like water.”Read More »
Tell me those three words people dream of hearing. You know, those infamous ones. The ones that are the foundation of humanity; the ones that have created and shaped the society we live in. People think, and people do. Not speaking. Not eating – life in a cardboard box. Three words; three ephemeral beings floating through the thick sludge of consciousness. Aghast! Ghouls walking the streets we proclaim to call home. The very bricks we so pitifully reside within. Scrupulous, and entirely uncaring. Nature ravaged – bare! And yet throughout, the three remain…
“There’s no light in the world, no salvation or remorse for our situation. We have carefully crafted this shit-filled biosphere we live in. We have built this stockade of mislead humanity through our evil and selfish actions. And now we are paying the price; or, at the very least, the people of Ashen are. And that is enough for me to see no hope. For hope to be a feeble concept, without a backbone, and without anything driving it forward.”
How many days must pass until the truth is revealed? I know and they know too, that life, and living, well… there’s no standard, and no true way. For one slips into the next, and the next into its neighbours. All that ever was, is, and all that will be… that’s something else entirely. Pondering questions of the future, and what that future has in store. Maybe a remedy, maybe something that reveals all there is to see and know. For we are young, living the passion of youth. A careless melody, starved in a crusade for truth. Lies they run our commons, biting and bruising all that we leave in the light of day. And we feel all under the light of the moon, the dusk, and the shortening of days. Because, in the end, we are all that we are…
Across The Dust
It’s been a very long time. My beard is long, my hair touches my shoulders in a tangled mess, and my body itches and stinks with retched uncleanliness.
But I do not care. I am beyond caring. That passed many months ago, as I realised what a shit-pit I now exist within.
Dawn breaks through the window. The early sun gleams and glints from the dust particles in the air, turning everything a deep shade of red. It is like this every morning – how long has it been now? Ten months? A year? More? It’s impossible to tell.
At the beginning I scratched the passing days onto the bare metal of the unit I live within, but soon, the days became lost, mingling with one another, until all I could measure time by, was the rising and the setting of the sun. Even that seems so inconsistent. A week seems like a day, and a day like a week. I have no point of reference, nothing to grasp hold of, nothing to direct me towards any type of goal.
I am a man, stuck in a metal box, on the surface of Mars – alone…
I pick up the radio transmitter on the desk in front of the window. I press it, and it beeps. “This is Nigel Warren of expedition Alpha 16. To anyone receiving, contact the European Space Agency, advising them that I am still alive within prototype habitat unit B3… Over and out…”
I look upon the face of beauty
Thinking, why does it always slip past,
Onto the second road down,
By where I used to live,
Onto the third house along
Where my neighbour died in her sleep?
It seems to always be this way
In the turning of the days.
Staring from the window, life drifts along.
Mustering all that might,
Even then, it does no good.
As I watch the face of beauty stride along,
From the window, bathed in forgotten song.
Sitting, I yearn to think,
Of a world where I might not be on the brink.
Just one day, one sweet time.
Hoping, of course, under the stars,
Under the sun that lights the face of beauty.
And all-together nights.
Building in the fray, well… something might.
Years gone, days gone, hours too,
Pondering questions of beauty, self-love.
Each morning, the enemy stares,
Right back at me, glaring, accusatory, hateful.
And in window, from the corner of my eye.
I watch as beauty walks calmly by.