State of Mind
When the blackness arrives, it is just there. There is no dusk or twilight, just a sudden nauseating midnight. If you've been in this place before then it scares you when it first announces its' return because you know what it has in mind for you and you don't know if it is here to stay, or if it is just going to fuck around with you for a little while. I wonder if you have to come up out of the pain at its' first glint and just rage against it. Maybe that is an initial affective anticdote; if acts of defiance prevent it from establishing a beach head, or if concessions and appeasement make the looming battle more difficult. Maybe it will just go away by itself later in the day, like a short virus, regardless of how you confront it. An extended fight might just kill me the next time. I have no heart for it, now that I know the brutality of such terror. Hell, perhaps I'll just clean the garage in a frenzy, furiously lift weights like a young man, run farther faster than my age can withstand for very long, talk too loud, and drink way to much with a forced bravado and energy, a bonfire blazing with loud drums and a spear brandished against the night. I'll paint my face and turn to the forest, my back to the flames, plain to see, screaming for a head on confrontation to kill the beast. Come on you son of a bitch, I'm right here where you can see me and I am ready for you. But the buzzard just sits there out there silently, lurking, waiting; the stink of his breath teasing the tepid air, knowing that you must come looking.