The Light

THE LIGHT: 

I think about that a lot—especially now, as I fade out of the day and stumble into myself again. Every sunrise feels less like a beginning and more like a quiet step closer to the end.

I sit in a half-broken camp chair, some old hand-me-down that’s probably carried stories as heavy as mine. It creaks beneath me like it remembers. Across the road, a few creatures of the night scatter, chasing whatever madness calls them next. I wonder if they still believe in something—if they still carry dreams the way I once did. Mine feel buried now… not gone, just too far down to reach.