Mortality.

Nothing is ever good or bad, everything just is.
Order will come, like it or not.
It is hard to look past delineated norms, and emerge unbiased.
But try we must, else why do we breath this very air?
To strive is to be human.

Elated disbelief.

How it feels to be part of history.

Tonight.

Rumble.

The lights flicker, blindingly. I see wraiths and phantoms in that instant of fleeting darkness.
I write by typing. Stitching words in awkward sequences, chasing dreams.
The blinking cursor mocks my inability to construct sentences, once I was so proud of.
I have grown afraid. Of almost everything there is to be afraid of.
The rustling poses a turning of leaves, back to newer beginnings.
I grow arrogant and complacent with my inflated ego unchecked.
The joy is still there, singing songs of treachery.
I start. I stop. I continue on.
The demons emerge, tall and strong.
I see a reflection of my insecurities.
The writer dying, as routine sets in.
I don't wanna give up.

Again.

Turn right, look left.
From here, to there.
Always more, never less.
I left, right after.
There is here, now.
Talk less, listen more.

Leap.

Into the gentle quiet dark night.