There's something about the city lights, staring up at them, watching the snowflakes fall beneath the shimmer, a glistening of falling hope. It makes you feel faith slipping from your fingertips, the intricate prints intertwining with lost identity. There's something about the nightly walks I take, how I dress for winter and hope for spring--how I look up at the sky and feel winters' harsh grip, the impending beauty of falling snow and that lost feeling I know will find my soul.
Time is such an intricate fixture of false hope, a man-made invention used to regulate the human experience. And, nobody realizes that time itself ceases to exist. It only breathes within our darkest moments, when the wind shifts and the white mist comes.
When I drive with my windows down, I look up at the night sky. My eyes start to slightly burn, the wind rushing through to the lower left corner. And, the moment when my uper lash collides with the lower, a shimmering drop rushes past my skin. I'm not sure why it is I feel this way, the unbearable lightness of simply being or the thoughts that cloud my mind. I think it is knowing when fall is about to come, when the wind becomes cool against my skin and the stars start to shine a bit brighter.
I find that when I'm alone I feel peace. When I sit on the curb in a parking lot, street lamp hovering over me, I catch a glimpse of what my life could have become and what it has ended up being. Taking a stone with my right hand, feeling the grit taking refuge on my nailbeds, I stare off into the right peripheral. I was a college graduate sitting in my master's workshop, knowing that I finally made my parents proud. I walked the icy paths in Michigan, careful as to not fall. My silhouette followed me back to my apartment room, closely watching as to not miss a single beat. I poured a cup of cold coffee. I slipped out of my canvas shoes. I sat back in my chair and flipped the page. Throwing the stone from my left fist, feeling the heft disintegrate. I dropped out of college, just before getting my undergrad. I work a minimum wage job that drives me crazy. I walk the cracked sidewalks in Indiana, careful as to not stumble. My silhouette follows me as I pass the street lights that hover over me, just enough to let me know they're still there. I hold my mug in my right fist. I slip out of my shoes. I lie back on the damp grass and close my eyes. I fade into my life as it exists at the end of the road, the one where I was once walking but turned around. I write delicately on the page below me, the tip of the pen kneading into paper--hoping the relentless pressure will stop. I watch the ink ooze from the page, dripping blood. I punctured the paper I once relied upon--my beating heart. I look up from the page, eyes drawn to the upper left corner, and I watch the insects. They delicately put one foot in front of the other, attuned to their placement. I find that they are, too, stuck in their own worlds; a world that has suddenly become slightly sticky, unsure of the next move.