desertland

The blank page, the white space, the empty void disturbs me. It feels like climbing up an escalator that's doing down faster than I can climb. Or like running against a wind that's too pulling too hard. Or like climbing up a mountain past the atmosphere line where I could still breathe air.

But, it's the page full of refuse, full of garbage, full of trash that bothers even more. It's then that I could swear I'm not moving at all, that my legs are fused solid. That they are trees growing up from the concrete, that I am a part of the scenery, that I will be in the same place until the earth around me dissolves back into light and void.

I try to accept it or tell myself I'm satisfied with it. Truth is, I'm only avoiding it. Only pretending, playing dress up with it, running from it.

And there is only so far I can run until I slip off the edge, fall from this height, break this back. Only so far that I can bear this load before it crushes me, flattens me, proves to be my demise.

So, when will I stop. When will I rest. When will I find peace.