Sarah strolled down the pavement, aimless, not knowing where she would go, and knowing that any route would take her there. Traffic and humanity filtered past her, edging out of quiet caverns into the everyday war of the world, war of humanity, and she walked. She fished for a cigarette in her pocket, lit it, breathed in deeply. All driven on by inertia, life, time.

That day I woke up, for lack of better purpose, went to my table and started writing a letter.

Dear Sarah, I wrote,
What on earth is our purpose here? What is life, what is time, what am I?

I put it in an envelope, licked it shut, put on a stamp, went to the post office and posted it to myself.

I received it the next day, read it, and kept it in my drawer where there were more such letters. Gave me something to live for. I wrote another letter, then flopped down onto my bed and fell asleep. I’d post it the next day.

Life ticked on in the plastic clock by my bedside. Kept me going, when I tried to keep pace with it, that is. It didn’t wait. If I died in my sleep it’d still go on.


-


A skinned orange broke across a dusty sky. Dawn was spelt, the morn juice streaking over and into the crevices of nightsoot, sailing high above the slender set pine trees of the forests, the nests of larks and finches and nightingales, the hunting grounds of the owls, the rippled blue silk of the oceans and rivers. Rawness, the tiny bubble sounds in a pond, fish stirring.


-


My attempts to find my muse.
I wanted to write about the concert-inspired ones.


but, anyway.


The first one, doesn't link.
Inspired by Sophie's World, and my own obsession with life and time.


Gosh, voices just scared me.
But Nickelback is always welcome. :)
That smiley wasn't really meant.
Let's remove it.


-rewind-


Gosh, voices just scared me.
But Nickelback is always welcome.