I don’t know that I aspire to be a writer but your collective positive feedback keeps me coming on. I juggle too many life roles to join a writers club, so the blog suffices. [the crowd gives an eclectic shout-out to Andrea P, she who blends words at a prodigious rate every day!] I feel for the guy below as he meanders through post-apocalyptic Nowhere to some unclear Somewhere. The destinations don’t matter to me as much as the feelings, hence why I so respect Fiodor D. and Aleksandr S.
[sigh] Truth be told, as an author I would be an impoverished ragamuffin living out my days in some lonely corner of the coffee shop.
It’s all clear
I was meant to be here.
But why, my dear,
if I can’t recall?
I have so much to care about,
visions in the night,
and the parts of you
that you let me keep.
But can I handle it,
the dangers of “Imagine if…”
when I try to collect pieces of me
lying lonely when you let me go?
His stumbling gait took him along the river, feeling the angry pebbles chattering underfoot, irritated at his early morning passage. Having left the love of his life quietly lifeless on the hillside, he half-heartedly continued his search for the seashore. The radio’s last gasps had promised them food and shelter at misery’s end, that town with that odd name. Would that it were so and that the soft tides of Puget Sound would be a salve for his sadness.
He felt her spirit floating nearby as he made plans for them both, not yet knowing how to breathe alone. Ruefully sighing at the folly of his new life, he plopped down alongside a wizened tree. A lizard skittered on a rock. Funny, he thought, how running into the wind blows away those things you can’t handle.
Drooling, he left behind thoughts of the queen of his nights and instead contemplated lizard fricassee a la carte. Funny too, he thought, how having a warped sense of humor was so important in a time of turbulence, this wintertime of his life.