Smoke

The white sky is flat and finite. After decades you are shocked by the amount of delusions running rampant. The waste of distractions keeping reality at bay persist. You are grateful for a cleaned sidewalk after snowstorm or the brown creek running wild among clumps of grass where mallards feed. The air is clean and crisp. The sun may show itself. You lessened the time staring at the tiny screen of forgetfulness. With each turn of a page, the book on your lap suffices. Philanthropists save the day. The walk will be beneficial. Making is limited but thinking is not. You analyze the curves of your life thinking it can always be harsher, colder, hotter, less provided for and thank the smell of pine trees for your lack of gluttony for attention. Your internal gifts outweigh the hurrahs. They are as fickle as the moon in winter.

Above you, a lost man flushes his toilet incessantly. His psychosis will disappear sooner than the greedy trolls where you lost your hand as they survey the land for more. They invade the day and night. You see trees and south hill. The joy is worth the effort. A worktable given freely is coming today. It will be a holding place for unfinished business or the snail-paced terrain of physical recovery.

You lost everything before. Something new always appears if you look for it. Typing is hard but writing near impossible. You look to the future. You survived the earthquake of vile actions and heartless mornings. You did not break although it felt like every molecule would burst as if a wooden bat hit while emotionless ghouls snicker in the background. Where are they now? Causing havoc elsewhere. It never ends. You adapt and withdraw from bent scenarios blocking progress. A funny word that may have no meaning at all. Hope is like smoke. It rises and disappears.

You gave up the horizon of ancient cities for upstate beauty and focused possibilities. You thank the gods and goddesses old and new for your final luck. It is not perfect but relatively safe. You are not overwhelmed by insects and foul smells, trash obscuring natural lushness with the addiction of acquisition. It is everywhere. Too many want everything. Too many think things will change. Civilizations come and go. Still, there is nothing new under the sun. A gadget here, a gadget there may transform behavior but not culture. The lies remain the same. The human condition is eternal. Goodness and mercy have their power. They hide behind taking.

On certain days, all is right with the world. On others, destruction is close at hand. They are illusions made by emotion, images, random events as the earth turns without notice. The spine can tingle or go numb. To continue is what matters. What do we know in the end? That we are here and perplexed as hell or sure as a signed document. A good cup of coffee and buttered scone can save the day. Eat and move on.