So it has become – a cyclic march around dreams and hopes and justice, an abstract attempt to converge to the life humans strive for. We stretch our necks, flail our arms, seek success, and swim in both the treasures of glory and the dregs of tragedy. And now, we claw at the walls of our life long pit, and the rustle of autumn leaves, barely audible, lifts us above the fallen ashes in search of a single ray. This broken land, this paradox of fortune and famine, that takes, and then gives only if you let its fingers hold onto the pulse of your life … this is all at stake, creating unconscious worries like drunken laughs floating through an alley. Soon, after waiting, after being surrounded by mirages, after dreams long melted, after being flustered by the weight of solid shadows, I watch, more silent than yesterday’s memory, a statue in my own mind, not walking, not breathing … just waiting.

posted by Lazarus, 5:49 PM