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.
I watch the quiet recharge, observing myself from a distance, even as I game. A weekend passes. I’m better for it.
A short story, a message to myself, found again by accident. Written a year ago. It is a message of hope, written in an uncertain time.
On reaching a milestone, today, I share the briefest of notes. How I got here, and what it means. Half a year of sobriety.
Thoughts, unbidden, arise. Driven by circumstance, I ask: who are we, and were are we going?
A silent need, unspoken even to myself, fills my thoughts as I drift to sleep.
Facing down the bad weather. Doable, but tough. Glad I'm back at the hab. But that's about all I can think.