Earlier today was earlier yesterday and the dawn before that, as these days bleed together like an overworked watercolor. There are three of us left but no words left to share that will turn our thoughts away from the void in our guts.
Eroded earth walls with the thick brush topping them was a blurred fabric stage-set to our eyes unable to adjust beyond the headlamp glare. For now, we were no longer men but part of the hard machine that had carried its rust and us this far. As for fuel, it wasn't necessary without needle in sight under these starless skies.
"Did you notice yet, the sunrise off to our left?"
In any other place but this, we would have seen this for all of its baited majesty and growing fireball hues, but this morning he noticed only that for the past two, maybe three, the sun rose to our right.
1 comment:
I like "rust and us this far." I also like the idea of contrasting beauty and exhaustion/getting lost/hiking around. I think when writing gets too idyllic it ends up reading like a bob ross painting, which this most certainly does not. In order for beauty to mean something deeper, it has to be examined, traversed, or played with -- like buying the whole set of baseball cards, unwrapping them, and getting your prints all over them, even though you know they'll be "worth" less without the cellophane.
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