We live in a strange dual-existence. On the one side, time passes predictably and ever-onward. Each day, indeed, takes a day to pass. On the other, though, our lives have slowed to a crawl.
There is a cult within humanity, tearing at our heart and mind. Telling us that theirs is the way to live, even as they destroy the world around them. Theirs is false promise and gloss, a thin veneer over gross decay.
Drifting throughts, carried on a light breeze. The taste of caf, the scent of rain. It is a summer morning in Citadel, and the year is 2020. We are broken, here in the future, but we are not down.
Vague and ephemeral, a promising point in the sea of data, she swam forward and faded, time and again. A digital presence promising more, sensing my loneliness and my need.
Time becomes meaningless, in this place without change. Hope moves out of reach and light fades from the world. Only flame illuminate the devastation of our future. Behind it all we hear the quiet, mocking, laughter of those that won. Those that took our power and our freedoms.
A morning run; a promise kept. The world, in these silent times, is different. Resurgent, perhaps?
From within the dystopian world we live, I find myself dreaming of a better future.
More time passes in lockdown. I become all-too-familiar with the world around me. I break it up, where I can, with exercise.
Maintaing the spirit in Lockdown, a sense of cautions optimism is founf in the darkenss of the night.
Establishing the boundaries of our new lives we concentrate on what we can. Answers don't exist for the question we all ask: when will this end?