Like Sundown in a long-ago summer. Like watercolors in the rain. Like futility in rescue. Destructive repetition decays what is built. The bold iron stronghold begins to rust and weaken as the days of distraction roll away without our notice.
Desparados under the eaves. Tapping on the subliminal glass. There is something on the calendar that, for some reason, we have no recall. We dance obliviously, not knowing that the captain has fallen overboard and the ship is drifting into the storm.
The vibration in the floor causes the surrounding volume to creep up, ever so slightly. It is a progression that, in time, causes the guests to give way to shouting. They adapt, not even noticing. We are groomed to surrender as we defend our method of demise.
There are short circuits everywhere; love and lies are bleeding into the windows, vents, and doors. We take the cause, riding the steed of exaggeration, sword drawn, crying war upon the other messengers of misinformation.
Flashes of truth expose themselves to our eyes like the surroundings in a lightning storm at 2 am. We try to remember the landscape in the seconds that follow because it is a hard contrast to what we now fail to see. Voices whisper that everything is a certain way, words with spices added to prejudiced perfection. I don't want to know, because it just makes me feel sour.
Vortex and texture of its destruction. Glass, splintered wood, ashes of the fallen, echoes of colonialism, and the garbage it has generated spin, like a wire brush sharing the centrifuge with us. We are just trying to live, man, and here it is, tearing at us, biting, corroding, compromising.
Standing on the edge of the volcano, crying for all we have lost, distraction wins today. I hate it. I sum up the collateral damage, which equates to a number of days that cannot be counted. Tuesday afternoon has passed, the sun is setting, and the shadows lengthen. The world will go on as the last light fades.
I never worried about the score until now. Wisdom dictates there is no benefit, and yet the energy spent on that could have built cities everywhere. I feel defeated by this. The investment in futility and its sad return are no trophy.
Once the predator hurts us, it always comes back. This time, I vow to get mad. This time, I choose to live and win. I dig in, I cry, and I scream that distraction will not win today. Will that really be so when the nighttime comes?
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