Wednesday, October 12, 2011

old dreams and grounded hopes

Nobody likes to change. Time passes so quickly, and before you know it, you're a shade of the person you once were.  Your hair falls out.  Things just start hurting at random.  The power of atrophy becomes stronger with each passing day.

You can feel her touch rake your skin, her whisper of decay in your ears.

"You're gonna die, just like the rest of them," she coos.

"Only faster."

I can feel the gravity of life dropping, the dynamic center losing speed. And I blame it on myself, because I'm not working hard enough to push away her grasp, running fast enough to stay out of her draft.  But there's little I can do. Once she's onto you, part of you, within the orbit of your heart, her dissolution consumes you.

We sink quick. To dirt, much too fast.  Once we reach a certain point of ascension, we can only stay elevated for a short time.  Before the inevitable fall begins.

To a memory, much too fast.

And she stands mockingly apathetic to our frailties. It's not her job to care whether or not we need more time, or need time slowed down.  Maybe just stopped for a while, so I can catch up a bit and know what it's like to live, be present at the peak of that ascension and appreciative of the view. I am hopeful that I didn't already miss the inertial jump.

Planes fly because of a complicated set of parameters and factors.  People are no different.  As the body of the  plane begins to break down, it eventually has to be junked.  It loses it's ability to call to air, reduced to a sad rusted heap of old dreams and grounded hopes.

We talk, and there are fewer in number to listen.

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