*The Dying Lake*
Tranquil. Yet restless, a surge in my chest that I can not
release, feel it build, rising, to the point of exploding.
And there it sits, a rumble and pressure locked in. I wish
I could throw it up, take a knife and cut it out, make
it disappear. Hard to breathe, staggered breaths, this air
doesn't feel pure, my soul corrupting it before it can
reach my insatiable lungs. What the fuck is wrong with
me. Staring at this dying lake, yearning for a raindrop, but
underfed for so long. It's sad, water slowly receding, how
bad it must want to flow freely again, over sand it
used to cover, but it is stuck, only moving backwards toward
a crying center. How hard it must be to unwillfully die, with
no options or chances, only hope for a sympathetic storm.
So symbolic, a mirror rippled with weak waves, distorting otherwise
clear images. It's never that easy is it. To see clearly. Everything
a blur as it races by, me confused, trying to catch up. Always
catching up, and never leading. I hate me. Sometimes. I want
to waste away, melt and rot with this lake, because then
at least I would have a companion. Something that will
vanish like me, with me, be forgotten in time. And in the end,
the only thing people will see is a crater of dust, blowing
away with the wind.