I look out from on high at the surrounding dead wintry world cloaked in cold and dark and in a hush. Its lights turned off till sunlight. All below rests silent beneath a snowy blanket. The street lamps doze toes tucked into a pale glow that barely penetrates the night. It is stillness. All of it. Two whole lifetime come and gone. All those years collectively tallied. It’s infinity now past. I can no longer breath life into them. This museum must close its doors! What i stare at around me it talks only in occasionally sharp brief glimpses of faded memories of high points and low. Of slices of life cut here and there by the happenstance of recollection. It is all buried too, far below, under thickeing ice.
This place will kill me, if I let it. I am suffocating here. Too long have I not been able to let go. Not of those people that once bided here. The ones that made this place. But of the fiction of myself still living, well off somewhere within the indistinct past. Ever hoping to summon those once carefree spirits from empty hollows of these empty rooms in an empty place. Where to move on to in a vacuum? This is just a room filled with junk that should have gone to rest along with its original owners so long ago. I have only been a border here. Maybe, perhaps from the time of my first drawn breath? A waif that my mother befriended. A child that my father drove along.
The most cynical of the friends that I have once passed time with in this life was wont to declare, time and again, that we are all born alone and will all die alone. In my case, it is true. The past has departed long before and left me back at the same crossroads. I cannot take anything from this former then, past the portal of this now. The weight of it all pulls me. The earth reminds me that I am but here and nothing more. I am a tiny part, no longer the sum total of whole. Some rude and turbulent soil to be. Can I sleep on it? These feelings that drag me forth and further? Can I sleep on it? I don’t know.