Reporting from where we don't like to occupy. Welcome to your other. My all-season pass to our shared tap of empty resonance. Our hopes come here to spend their final days. It's a landfill of inspiration and lively dreams where one cannot avoid but seeing the few children of Icarus lying still. Too still.
The voices of depression and despair reverberate here like the pulse of a thunderstrike, reverberating over the land without shame or judjement. This very land is the grit and granule of misgiving. We take a simple wrong turn in our paths and reluctantly feel the vibration of lost hope through our feet.
It is the tide against which our hearts resist. It is the wasteland upon which we find an ultimate resolution, unshirkable, unavoidable in its truth. Here is the terrain that proves our undoing or our validation, without which we are merely motes, blown and buffeted from desires and reasons alike.
What could be more lonely than finding passage amongst this deadland? Would there be anything more tangible and heartfelt than the winds of this absolution? Each soul knows its range and path here, and not one leaves who cannot feel the bonds that are its cost. Such is the price of intimate knowledge.
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