She lies asleep upstairs, on a small platform, thoughtless and wordless for only a few short hours, trying to piece together a fragmented mind of exhaustion. He sleeps in his egg, no longer an egg but alive and kicking, and demanding of our worlds.
I sit quiet as possible thinking of nothing and everything. What an endless short time it’s been. I have only minutes now, before reality breaks down the door, dragging me back to responsibility, a life of food and cleanliness, hot and cold, full of love and suffering. Must save now, must save tonight for tomorrow, don’t want to lose this moment, and as much as I want to run, I find my feet are tied together by my sense of right and wrong. I have to see this through, but to what end? To what beginning?
My brother is off in distant lands, young and pure. My parents and all I know sleep through the summer night, tossing and turning in the heat and quite unaware of this world I inhabit. Memories flash past, what if, what if not and what now? The future extends before me like a shining highway through the desert… with few crossroads and even fewer roundabouts. I turn to my left and on the passenger seat I see a girl. She’s shining in the evening light, with the vast empty sky behind, her eyes looking always at me. And to my right a sleepless night, with the moon heavy in my eyes. I’ve stored it up you know, there was never a suitable outlet, never a way to expell the ghosts of my own personal history. Is this a challenge or an immovable wall, lined with the cracks of ages?
I wanted to be something beyond these few and fragile years. I guess I have achieved that finally, but it’s the strangest dream I ever had. Something ahead in the distance catches my eye, growing larger in the headlights. Why does everything in me end in a question? I prefer it out here in some ways, when a sentence begins with a question or exclamation. You know what is coming. Should I wake her? Should I let her in? It’s a terrifying thought, and one I can’t take lightly.
He lived up in the hills, he loved those hills, never traveling far in any sense we would understand. The inventions of the day would keep him peaceful through the night. Light and dark is all it seems to be, to me. The start of a hundred tales are contained within, each clamouring for attention. The story-teller cannot tell them all, life and focus are just too short.
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