Dark flat clouds scudding across a leaden sky, lit from behind with a yellow glow. The sky hangs, low and threatening, over a marsh covered with tall reeds, and there is no wind.
The silence is total and oppressive.
Somewhere in the mud there is an old ship, a hulk left to rot, gutted of all that’s usable. Dismasted, stripped, desolate – the husk of a ship, all that’s left of the past.
Empty inside, aching for a past that was and for a future that can never be, with yearning for something gone or yet to come, a pain unidentifiable.
Streaks of rust running down the bulkheads, all paint still gone, and the pain of voyages never made, of seas never seen – of sailing the sea of stars, and never visiting the same space again. Of always renewing oneself, holding on to beauty and happiness.
And there is loneliness. Loneliness, total and absolute the loneliness of missing someone who has never been born, the loneliness that lives in the core of one’s being.
It would be better to disintegrate and sink slowly into the marsh, but such an end does not belong to this world, where time does not flow, where nothing changes unless you want it not to change.
No birds could ever fly these skies. There are no birds to fly.
What do you do when you don’t know what you want, just that what you want is something different from this?
And this is my mind, these are my moods, given colour and setting, but no life. I have no life to give them. A thinking individual should know his own mind, what he wants should have some definition even if he can’t have what he wants.
At times like these I wish I’d never been born.
