"Americans used to say where there's a will, there's a way. Nowadays, it's where there's a pill, there's a way out." - - Burnt Toast

Waterfall. . .

He opens his eyes and closes them again tightly. A deep, shuddering breath is released as the familiar electric surge wells up from deep within him. The connections are made all over again, a sickly throbbing, repeating pulse of memory and continuity on an endless loop. It starts as it always has with the first thought, that one bonded to the next and the next; a tenuous, but expertly woven web of conceptions distilled into its purest and most effective formula of suffering.

As it floods back into his mind, the shadow of a man, a helpless victim of remembrances, squeezes his eyes tighter, fighting for what little he has left. His tiny wall of protection crumbles under the massive weight of thought, exposing him again to the acid sting of the desolation, isolation. He opens his eyes and fights, his body tense, but two tiny tears swell in the corners, teetering on the edge, blurring out the details surrounding him. The warm, enveloping sunlight falling through the window passes through the prism of his tears and his tired mind registers the razor sharp and exploding colors of a perfect rainbow. Then, the waterfall of despair comes again as he remembers it all once more.

- Sent from my iPhone

Post a Comment



About This Blog


  © Blogger template Shush by Ourblogtemplates.com 2009

Back to TOP