Maybe It's The Sun

You’re tired of doing this. You’re very, very tired. You are tired of leaving the rickety old wooden door to slam behind you, the false mire of protection you thought it had evaporating into the night air. Night, of course, because you never seem to get up early enough to enjoy the sunrise. 

The sunset, though, it's different now. You’re noticing that for the third time this evening, as you sling your coat over your shoulders. You’re not even putting it on all the way, just letting the old thing hang like a cape. What are you the captain of now? The admiral? Nothing. You’re merely an inhabitant. 

It’s smoky out there tonight. The fires over to the west must still be burning. They’re signal fires, but you’re well aware that there is no one to signal. Maybe the fires have just gone out of control, and leapt to the pines to claim their slaughter. They would be late, for the slaughter has already come and gone without so much as a wave hello. 

The smoke does not part dramatically before you. It does not offer any kind of respect, nor sentience, as one would hopefully expect from the result of carbonizing wood. As you know, there is no one left to respect. Most of them are buried, a long way down. Eight feet. That’s a long way, isn’t it? Could have been six, but there really wasn’t anything else for you to do but dig a hundred graves. 

I mentioned the sunset a moment ago. I mentioned that you noticed it again. What did you notice? Tell me, tell us, for we are a curious race. 

It’s redder now. Of course it is. The smoke has cast a veil over it, like the bride of a new apocalypse, waiting to be wed. This is not just the crimson sheen that is given by flame and dust, though, but another kind of scarlet. Age, perhaps. Do you think that the sun grows weary? Do you think that they might like to end this eternal dance and sink below the horizon one last time? Do you think, with what left of you can think, do you think that you are not the only tired one here? Do you think, or do you hope?

Another thing that was mentioned was a ‘false mire of protection’. Poetic, isn’t it? Too poetic, too silly. The door behind you is only a part of the house, like the rotting porch steps you’re sitting on now. Sitting, smoking, and watching the world pass you by. The figment of protection would denote that there is some kind of safety to be attained, correct? Incorrect, you just really don’t like the way everything looks outside. 

There is nothing here to hurt you. There is no one here to wrong you. The only danger is up in space, quite a ways away. You take another drag on the cigarette you seem to have magically produced. You are safe, and yet in every kind of danger you can think of. That is due to the fact that you’re terrified. I know, I’ve just told you that you’re safe. So, if you’re safe, what’s to fear? 

Your reasoning, in this case, seems to align about the main points of “What isn’t to fear?”

The creaking of the house keeps you up at night, as if there is an army of enemies tramping about in the attic. The calls of the birds haunt you, for fear they might grow dim and leave you. Even the rhythm of your own heart can terrify you, the thought that it could just stop someday. 

You are alone here. You are safe from everyone but yourself. C’mon, get up. Snap the binds that keep you tied down and do something so brave as to walk across your little graveyard. You can do it, you will be safe. There is nothing in the woods that surround your haven, there is nothing that can harm you. 

Good, you’re doing it. You’re doing good. You do slow as the wind picks up, but that’s because you’re blinded by inconvenient flecks of ash and such other amenities. You have sleeves, I suggest that you use them to remedy this issue. 

As the wind hastens, it gives voice to the lament of the graves. The makeshift crosses you’ve adorned each one with are made of sticks and twine, rather than stone and good craftsmanship. They whistle now, a lower song, more foreboding than usual. 

Just on the other side of your graveyard, there’s a car. It’s long since broken down, and your knowledge of mechanics is limited quite severely. But it’s nice there, sometimes. You pick your way through the graves, slowly. No one is there to jump out at you from behind them, you know. There is nothing to hurt you but yourself. The smoke wafts against your skin, which would be disturbing if you weren’t used to it by now. 

You stop. Why are you staring at the sun? It’s dramatic, I know, but you are going to go blind. At least go grab a pair of sunglasses, they’d keep the askes out of your eyes, too. No? Not dramatic enough? You must stand here, sacrificing your eyes, in order to carry across the vision of such a fantastic creature. 

That’s enough. Stoppit. Cease your observations of the rapidly failing ball of fire in the sky. Good, there, you did it. Wrenched your eyes away from the thing that scares you so terribly. 

You are scared. You’re terrified. There is nothing to terrify you and yet that ill spectre of adrenaline spikes your blood. An irony, perhaps? There must be one somewhere. An irony that the captain would be left to die among the graves of those they lead. A sick kind of irony, sick with every kind of disease that can still ravage this earth. 

You open the car door. It’s hinges are stiff with rust, and I can say the same for you. And yet it still gives way, doesn’t fall off, and you take your place behind the wheel. There is no particular reason for you to sit in the driver’s seat, other than the fact that there is a large hole in the windshield on that side and you’d rather not think about how it got there. 

The mirror catches your attention. You know, that tiny little mirror that’s supposed to reflect behind you so there are fewer car accidents than normal? That one. Why did it catch your attention? Why are you dusting it off? Why, why on earth are you staring at your reflection like that? 

Maybe it’s because you’re lonely. Maybe it’s because you’ve not seen another human face in so long, that your own has become some sort of stranger to you. Maybe it’s that. 

Maybe it’s the sun, slowly dwindling, just out of reach.