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.
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?
We've shut ourselves down. What does this mean? I try to keep my mind quiet, my anxiety at bay; pacified. I don't always win. None of us do.
In the silence of the empty life, the heart and mind yearn to find fulfilment. They know what they want, but they can only ask for what they know.