It always starts the same.
Empty highway, dead straight road at dawn. No cars, no people, just me by myself, bare feet on cold tarmac dressed in my pyjamas, my oldest, most loved cuddly rabbit dangling helplessly from the confused clasp of my fist.
Always starts the same.
The sun perches on the horizon, huge tangerine of fire in the sky. It never moves: not once does the day break, does the night fall. Forever this peach-gold rim lining the foot of the heavens like a bright ribbon tied neatly around an unattractive gift. Thick grey clouds hang from the air as if from an invisible wire in the gloomy sky; they promise storms and devastation, it seems as though something terrible, something black and ominous is coming although nothing ever does.
As I walk through this barren land, I always feel trapped as if inside a photograph, empty black and white shot where nothing in the glossy print ever changes, always stays the same even after fifty lonely years inside an album under the bed.
And I am always walking, aimlessly wandering without knowledge or purpose, without understanding where I will end up or from where I have come. My soul feels as dark as the skies as I push laboriously forwards, alone on this desolate stretch of endless road as if I am the very last person on the planet.
And, you know, I feel as though I should recognise this place. If I have not been here in this life then I must surely have visited in a past one: everything appears so familiar: every colour of the unfailing sky; each view of the sweeping fields that push our from either side of the highway, creating a perfect velvet spread of sharp, pristine grass; every silent thought that the sky hides from me haunts my sleeping hours like a heavy regret from years that have escaped us.
It always starts the same. Empty highway, dead straight road at dawn. No cars, no people, just me by myself, bare feet on cold tarmac dressed in my pyjamas.
(Unfinished at the moment, will continue writing tomorrow!)