We all struggle with it, anticipating victory over its unmoving gaze, staring upon its wishless eyes, mechanically soulless, physically bodiless and yet still pertinent to all minds, creeping like a slow growing ivy throughout their brain. We can all feel it, burdening the soul, an ever chipping poke or prod, an insignificant reminder, an arbitrary metronome, clicking into tempo with the rhythm of the heart. We all know the war we engage upon with the reality, like holding back the seasons, an immeasurable force retaliating without love or hate. A miraculous birth, spilled upon our corporeal canvas, creeping forth into growing flowers and rain swept hills, developing cognition as the apex of crushing summer bears down heavily upon the shoulders. It’s a painful realization, a surpassing of the fulcrum, and a panicked retaliation to recapture such precious moments forever unattainable. Stretched arms ward off the impending autumn, clasping chilled branches around the body and soul. We endure the wrecking heave into the final moments of autumns throttle, screaming in revolution against the pressing rage of winter’s finality, our minds fill with regret. Mementos of our lives become primordial thoughts, helpless wishes. Though thrashing and battling against the approaching impasse, a calm washes over, deadly, yet home. We hold our hands to the snow, the dead ice, and the undying wind. A throaty, harsh whisper trembles through the air, reminding any and all, our impermanence, and vocalizes our dissatisfaction with our lives, our reality, our existence. God, why?
A little literature doodle. Alliteration. A little alliteration literature doodle.