Under Time

We know them - they live in dark rooms, their pale faces lit by computer screens, alone. They are looking for something new, they are looking for magic, for meaning, for an experience beyond. They stand atop of hills, the grey clouds raining on them, holding their swords, looking afar. Yet the world is dragon-less, and they weep, and they awake.

The struggle starts in the morning, when there is one, for after all there is as little meaning there as there is anywhere else. It's winter, it's always winter, the painfully cold wind slowing them in their tracks, and they forget even why they're walking, let alone where it might lead.

There are people. There are people who care, there are people they care about - there is also pain there, suffering that seems to justify the world like an addiction. The drive, the repeated fulfilment of small, while they wait for other worlds to come and open.

But little happens. Little ever happens, and time does nothing but bring it's never ending, uncaring sarcasm.

Posted on 12th March 2013