All drawn out.
This fatigue has been going on for too long. It is already way past its shelf life, like an eight-month-old tomato that was once in the pink of health, now shrivelled into an almost nothing and having not even seen the light of day. A self-imposed sabbatical is supposed to be a rejuvenating and enlightening affair, but sometimes it can leave you feeling emptier than before, like yesterday’s bittersweet memories are wont to do.
But there are now no more lovely blue skies, delightful baritones or passionate heartaches to speak of; only an unspoken war of words, a deafening silence and a senseless fear prevails.
A year of drought may well spell a lifetime of nought – that final piece of the puzzle stubbornly remains out of reach and unseen; those rare slices of time and rhyme that bring about real feeling and pure understanding, simply too few and far between.
Tonight, as I watch the broad sheets of rain pour right by my window, I wonder how far back I could go to mend and make better this life of mine.