The Fruit on the Vine Withers and Dies

Life just leads me on and on, around with no structure and no thought. The pointlessness of it all makes for some strange days. Days of bumping into walls, walking into furniture. The futility drives me onwards to misunderstandings, followed by walls of resentment, waves of regret, pockets of loneliness.

My eyes face down, they follow the cracks in the pavement created by the feet that have walked the beat before me. I follow in each footstep, straying seems a lost cause. The tide of humanity drags us all down in the end. That life is fleeting is irrelevant as are all things.

That conversation I had with you seems to repeat itself in many different forms. The kid asking his mother for some money for some such crap, the pair of lovers, staring into each other eyes, loving like lovers like to be loved with outside shut out, kept at a distance where impunity can be fostered only to be cracked like the shell of an egg as soon as the love turns away, turns its nose up in the air.

I don’t doubt my own sanity as much as I doubt the ability of my soul to recover from the countless beatings it endures. Who looks out towards the outside.

I spin in circles, the wind whirls around me, creating a maelstrom of fear. The emptiness expands with me at the epicentre, people shout as they are lifted and flung by the emptiness that appears. They cry out and cry with tears, blown off their faces by the ferocity of the silence that the wind brings with it. Their faces begin to skew, shaped by the forces that buffet them, no longer human but shapeless masses, slothing towards an ultimate goal that doesn’t exist.

The Universe of wind implodes. I’m at my mothers side, a new born, sitting in my own filth, but blissfully unaware of the world around that will eventually crush my spirit. My will to wail begins – born out of bliss and I cry. My mother holds me in her arms and I am buried beneath her sweet embrace.

I smell the stench of fear. I am born.