In a desolate wasteland, I languish, witnessing the times fading into memories conjured by my future self, the self that’s closest to death and knows of its arrival. I wander alone, and lonely — as I feared. I am running around the barren plain, seeking a sanctuary where there is none I can see. But I keep running, even when I want to drop to the ground and allow the vultures to swoop down and devour what’s left of my bruises, what’s left of my flesh, what’s left of my blood, what’s left of my bones, what’s left of my heart, what’s left of my soul — it’s all or nothing, I either die or live and I cannot seek any other alternative because nothing in this life is ever a guarantee except for death and I somehow cannot grasp the purpose of it all, especially the pain that consumes me with a cold-blooded rage that I cannot break free from. Not even the sunlight can burn it away, let alone the fragile light I have within me, barely holding onto my life source, whatever that may be, I still cannot see, even to this day. Fractures are created to be healed, but somehow, mine are exposed and my bones are slowly rotting away. It would take one trip over a root to send me to my destruction, my bitter end, the defeat I don’t want to admit. In this desolate wasteland, all I am is fighting for my life with all I have, yet my bones yearn for wholeness, my body yearns for rest, my heart yearns for a cooling stream, and my soul yearns to flee. But in this desolate wasteland, there is nothing to flee from.
Except from me.