Come and Sit in my Chair

Come and sit in my chair – this seat is warmed for you. The cold plastic has no cushion but it has the long-seated warmth of loneliness – a time-honoured tradition of looking out the window and wondering what to write.
      Come and sit in my chair and watch the world rotate through collective memories, the recycling of the past to renew the present. The ghosts of our former masses have risen from their bodily graves to haunt our waking days.
      Come and see the sorrow pretend to be new; come and see the complaints pretend to be virtue; come and see all hopes rise from the same grave that our ghosts rose from.
      Come and watch the sparrow falling into laughing leaves and whispering death trivials on a staged renaissance.

      Autonomy is not spirit. Autonomy is living.
      Autonomy is trudging up a hill raising the flag of independence to bitter winds that carry your voice across empty oceans.

* * *

Mr Aghast, come sit with me. Here are the keys to your future, this loneliness of being. Are we two afraid of dying, or are we just afraid to stop living? How addictive is this breath of life – it never wants to give up, even when thoughts think otherwise.

I slumber onwards, head sunk low, trapped in walls.

I miss the stars.