Life with Meaning

Nowhere . . .

. . . is . . .

. . . Everywhere . . .

. . . And, solitude is the only place you can hold in the hollow of your hands without it cracking to pieces.

Silence-its beat engulfs your senses, wiping them away with a loud hum that overcomes every picayune moment of comfort.

Darkness-where icy images tilt the world, making up reality in tales of dusk and myths of light.

Cold-icicles transpierce the once warm meaning of your veins, slowing the pulsing life within you.

Noise-whispers of tripping sound fear the mask of silence, yet the murmurs pitter forth as if agony stirred them to speak.

Light-where a hand, once cloaked in black, returns itself as a blurry sight; the fingers wave drifts of movement against your cracked skin.

Warmth-life floods back into your veins.

Life starts; blood rushes; pain drowns.

Life . . .

Life . . .

Life . . .

A beating rhythm surmises relief as the air wraps its dithering fingers around the instrument from which the drumming noise rolls.

THUMP . . . It beats fervently for hope.

TH-THUMP . . . It waits, stuttering, as if life wants more than to exhale the dusty ruins of this setting.

BEAT . . . Your heart beats; the waves of coolness drift away, and all you are left with is a memory-a memory of how it used to be: life without meaning.