The Wind Cries.

The wind howls,
Icy and biting
The eagles soar,
Mighty and regal
The sun shines,
Raw and bright
The hikers trek,
Tired but unrelenting
The clouds gather,
Moist and fluff
The mountain stands,
Tall and proud.

Future.

Who can tell what the future holds? Besides being incredibly optimistic (at the start) about it, there's not much of a discernible clear path towards the end. What end though? For survival? To self-sustain? Enjoy the finer things in life?

No matter the end goal, the struggle will be imminent and continuous. Unless, of course, if the struggle is not real, then it's a completely different story altogether. Bad pun fully intended. 

Who knows what I'll be doing in the future; I sure as hell don't. So, all the best to not knowing what to do (most likely).

Liebe.

She shivers, making hisses of condensed air which fogs up her skewed glasses as she blows into her palms, trying to transfer some bodily heat to her numbing fingers. Tucking her worn and faded purple jacket closer, she makes another attempt in tackling the problems. With a crooked black mechanical pencil held tightly in hand, neat and tidy letters slowly fill up the thin white paper as she scrawls on and on. Unbeknownst to her, evident lines of each letter began appearing on the stack of writing paper underneath, imprinted due to her powerful and heavy strokes. She hunches forward ever so slightly as she becomes more and more engrossed by the problem at hand, her nose almost touching the paper. Then, she looks up suddenly, adjusting her ever-dropping spectacles with a slight off-handed motion of her hand as she notices my scrutiny for the past fifteen minutes or so.

“What?” she asked incredulously as I smiled.  

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.

It's that time of the year, again.

It seems counter-intuitive to keep going at this, but I just couldn't let this go. I deigned to consider a more sophisticated choice of lifestyle, unwilling to accept life's brevity and frailty. I struggled; fearful of potential criticism, hopeful of unwarranted praise. It is never by design that I seek to accomplish so much, yet always falling short. Still, I promise to try again. 

I just want to live with no ragrets. Not even a single letter, never again.

(Not)Incandescent

You won't know what was lost until it already far too late. There's no precedence to crying over spilled milk; you might as well get a new carton and drown yourself in that sweet white stuff. For the lactose intolerant, just drown yourself in regular water.

Besides wry humor, there's little I can afford to offer the world.

These things are getting shorter and shorter, I'm afraid I've finally lost it.