Nov 8. It is beginning to feel a lot like I am living in the middle of a dystopian novel.
The catalyst and plot twists are looking all too familiar. I don't want to read it, let alone live it. The book hides its covers and refuses to be put away. I traverse the lines with my own feet and brace myself for the next pages.
They are written. We can smell the ink, see the blurry cloud of black words bleeding out like a river breaching into beds of white rocks.
Too tiny to see ahead, no matter how long we try to stretch our necks.
We know the good news. Eventually will be a resolution of sort, then a lesson. The bad news is that those living in the midst may not survive the conflicts. We are due for this, many say. Though the word due implies too much to think about now. Our feet bump against those rocks, white as snow.
So I pray, that it will be a very short short story. Flash fiction. Mini-word play.
A single tweet. And hide those access buttons.