The bleak-eyed morning hours are lonely times for the professional. Soft fingertips of rain brush my coat, my shoes, my hat. The mud cakes like fine powder on the soles of my shoes, and balancing proves difficult. It is a time of reflections, of preparation. No self-respecting killer would think of attacking at this time, when the sun has not risen from her slumber, and the moon has already retired. It is a time to consider, to ponder. Ponder of yesterday and tomorrow.
The crying darkness cowers behind leafy shadows, and the liquid sky hovers low, fearful of these hours. Everything seems fearful now, in these hours, these tired, tired hours. Crimson memories blaze quiet searing torment across the clouds, probing and prodding holes in my soul, feeling them, pulling. Friends, family, lusts, loves, caught in the maelstrom of the past, spinning, screaming those old fears, those old bloodshot morning fears. So many faces, so many mistakes. Dashed hopes, crumbled dreams. So many.
In the cold, breathy sighs turn to white beauty, snaking quietly across the trembling wind. I know what it feels. My bones quiver too. The wind and I are old friends, comforting each other each day. Carried on it's arms I can feel what I can't otherwise; these faces bore into my deeply gored heart. Some dead, some mad. All gone, so far gone. I hid in the welcomed rain just as the darkness does in those shadows. We all need a place to hide.
I glare across the fraying metal fence at the smell of diesel and rubber floating along the interstate. Tons of steel death racing at 35 over the speed limit, as if where they were going was really all that important. This job always seems to taste of dark-bitter reality, especially when I stop to taste those flowers. Any one of them could be my target today. Any one of them could be searching for me. Any of us, those racing for their five-by-five cubicles for the early morning shift, or me, standing in the gentle tears of heaven, could die today. Or tomorrow. If I knew my friends would cry these tears tomorrow for me, would I be standing here? Would I bother going to work? Would I use my precious time like that? Hiding in cubicles?
How do I know I won't die tomorrow? Hope, I suppose, or ignorance. They say to live like that is self-destructive delusion, wasteful and uncaring. But to live to the fullest, not waste a minute in needless windings and trappings, to feel each flavor on the mind's tongue as a burst of life and light; wouldn't that be an ideal life? Not in fear, not in hiding, but in love and frivolous ecstasy.
I shake my head and move towards my car, burgundy metal, grinning like the pale face of flustered pain, headlights wide in fear and loathing. I can't live like that, in the open, unafraid. Too much of a risk for a plotting keyboard like me. Too disordered, too unplanned. I need my darkness, my place to hide, my place to feel. Besides, I have to prepare.
Prepare for tomorrow. If it comes.
The ice of the wheel feels numb in my hands; the windshield is glazed with thick water. The waterfall of millions of past lives, wasted on living to live. Well, I can avoid that much, at least. Maybe I can't live for the moment, perhaps I must live to live, hiding behind the shroud of life, as so many others do. But I can live to love as well. Then I won't be wasted. Not on hate, not on fear.
The rain has stopped, and while the mud is still wet and the trees are still drip-drying, I think I see a little ray of sun from the horizon. The time of introspection is over. The day has begun.