We’re still here. With the pulling of the ocean, we weather along with the sand dunes hoping for a break in time. But is passes us by, relentless by nature, it passes us by, without warning, like a thief in the night. We steal each breath and reserve the knowledge that it could be our last, it can always be our last. Generations crowding our youth push forward, and out of the way we drift, like the changing of the guards, we step down and pass the burden. “Make your mark,” they say, but how can we afford to make anything? In this day and age we have the right to assume the worst, but we’re still here, in the wake of turmoil, we plunge ahead, ready and willing to take anything on.
She is sick with a burning fever, and though we’ve been warned again and again, we’ve evolved into parasites, and while we wage war on ourselves, she is waging war on us.
It’s all on me. There’s always been something, a dream to depend on, a plan in the works, something to keep me going and get through the mundane, the boredom of everyday, but for some time now, the everyday is all I have, and idealism, creativity, and free spirits are much too tired to play after a ten hour shift. I don’t think I’m cut out for this life I lead. I should find another way before longevity sets in.
Down here, where humidity sticks around all year round and swamp lands meet the sea, we sink lower in the aftermath. Televised chaotic abandonment is still very real as we prepare for a seasonal encore. Something must be wrong in the atmosphere, slow at first, but here it is, upon, a sci-fi film in the flesh, the only thing left is to milk it to death. Theories advance to fact, heated debates extinguished, “I told you so,” these greenies were right after all. The sky is falling, run for the hills in drought and follow the flood waters home. Something is wrong in the atmosphere I’ve known.