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.
More time passes in lockdown. I become all-too-familiar with the world around me. I break it up, where I can, with exercise.
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.
A faded hope matches the mood of a dull morning commute.
A silent need, unspoken even to myself, fills my thoughts as I drift to sleep.