Friday, March 25, 2011
Years from now, amid the outskirts of humanity, with the narcissistic cosmos swirling about it in infinitesimal spiral, and the vast ocean surging forward with devastating waves, and the old-world creatures of the sea plotting thunderous, stormy acts beneath its surface and the bitter darkness's all-consumingly splendor of terrific proportions unbeknownst to the frailties of man, there will be a beacon of light. The golden lighthouse stands in weathered stillness. It watches all alone on the edge of the world, for the ships that will never come ashore, for the little lost girls that will never make it back. This is where I will be, one day. Books stacked amid telescopes and curious objects along shelves and just me, just an almost-child light-keeper dweller hiding on the edge of the world. Dreams crushed into little boxes and all the badness shut away. I can taste the sea salt on my lips.