Arriving somewhere but not quite. Fleeting impressions of states of
emergency and
sounds of distress rise and merge with the city before the
eyes of the dying
for a haunting, gaunt image of life in turmoil, in transition,
crashing through the embers
of time. We are existence in self-reflection. We are deadwing.
We are compromised,
angry, wonderful and free, our beauty borne out of the ruin we
create and the wake
we leave behind. Our shine in the dirt, our voice in the din, our
plain disregard for
the sirens that wail to lure in our aspirations, offering us
real estate in their watery graves,
our calls against them, the charms we wield to protect
ourselves, our defense against deletion,
our shield against the whirlwinds. Travelers on our way
through, we are on our way through,
on our way to a promise. We live on dreams. The unknown is
our muse. We embrace it and
we embrace everything it bears with it, including the dead,
and the ghosts, and the guilt,
all the unspoken words that flood our minds, all the dreams
we had but never chased,
all the tears, the pain, the laughter and love we felt but never
expressed, or, worse, binged on,
indulged on till we drove it all away, till we buried it under a pile of
delays, under a layer of instant gratification.
All that and more, everything we loved and everything we wasted
and lost, it’s ours, we carry it
forevermore. Arriving somewhere, neither here nor there, somewhere
near, with a long way to go,
and what a pleasure it is to prolong our haunting — our
torturous, formative journey, our odyssey.
One day we’ll look back at it, thankful for the trail and
the scars it has given us.