Every year it happens.

The light changes. A quality of atmosphere begins to fade. Dread and anxiety well up from some place, dark and deep. Life around me drifts down to the hibernation state, becomes skeletal and subsides to a place just above death.

Skeletal by CL Turner

I’ll be honest…from here to February is a daily, granular, fight for that little bit of life; every fucking moment visualizing the promises made to just not sit with Oblivion and make travel arrangements. This year all of it is more difficult. There are no reserves, there is little will, and promises make for stale food when everything tastes like ashes.

…give, give, give some more

expect nothing, get little, 

hope it will all make sense…

to someone, someday.

This is not a suicide note, so relax your clench a bit. My words and images here are a drifting from light to dark. This place is one of the very few places I can speak with my own voice; it’s a price paid for being a Voice to so many (…I probably should have read that “fine print”). If anything, all of this means something else; more broken bones in my future?

Don’t know, care less.

Today I think it means getting on my Bike and riding somewhere, maybe taking the camera and a trick lens or two. Throttle up, chase the light for a while before this hemisphere settles into winter-dark.

Throttle up, chase the light for a while before that winter-dark cloaks me over and locks my limbs in cold.


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