• Am I falling?
    Am I flying?
    These eyes of mine are but a mirror, the pain and strife we view but a splinter of what you bottle up inside.
    Let go?
    Don’t let go?
    Who’s to say what’s best? Nothing’s really right or wrong, just a matter of perspective.
    Blot it all out?
    Blot it out with the ink on your quill or the notes of a song, dance to the edge of oblivion only to be pulled back.
    Pulled back by whom?
    Why try at all?
    Yourself, your friends. Old and new faces alike. Shadows cast upon the world by the fingertips of burning cities, sirens wailing off in the distance.
    Are there friends?
    Where were they when you needed help?
    They were fighting their own battles, defending their own right to passage. As in this world, you can only hope to change the system, never defeat it.
    But why? Why must it be so?
    Why fight?
    You fight to live another day until there are none left. You fight for a better tomorrow. Perhaps no tomorrow at all. You can’t be certain, as there are no promises from anyone.
    This is all that’s certain.