There is something in the air here that feels foreign. Either the waning mist from the mountains or the desolate valley fog has my mind clouded in a way that seems like a razor lodged in butter. I’m wondering if what I have to say has already been said but only ever now felt in the immediacy of my own consciousness. As if what I am looking to illuminate has only presently been brought to light to cast rays on the pale darkness of my ignorance. I find it funny perhaps how little my mind works. As if the troves of disappointments in life’s seemingly fruitful experience for most leaves my body a withered prune from a single pluck. There is comfort in the unknown, an uncanniness of how life presents opportunities yet only ever closes the curtain on possibilities. Looking once at what lay in the corner dappled light of a room permits the onlooking of a turned stare only to realize the light has vanished to shadows and the pit of a wall staring back amongst a closed door. I find that the multitude of joy a fickle fixation that hides in it the pleasures of many isosteric minds yearning for more but only ever grasping at diseased rarities. What am I even trying to say? I’m fond of the noble yet wade in the waters of the underdog hoping to catch a glimpse of a singular nobility of my own. As if to say, I don’t want it, really; to be the best is enough. Again, a rarity of illness to find that my preconceptions of such to be untrue. It is time that is like the waters of Colorado, carving into my flesh and withering the sands of memories held to a high esteem laying claim to the notion of being supreme amongst nature’s in-born perfection. There are no grievances given for something so pure. Nature does not apologize, instead she laughs. How stillborn are you? She says. Your consciousness moves like stone, yet you tread with your feet in the seaweed of delusion only to have never left the shore. Can you walk? Crawl perhaps? Have you seen how keenly swift others move? To know that one can surmise a plausible excuse as to how or even why this was brought about is absurd. You must read minds. I think you are insane. She then takes the shoes from your feet and hides them for you. The quibbling thoughts of how your decisive forgetfulness functions and fails you in the simple routines you once found trivial. She will bat her eyes and ask, why do you hate me? For which you have no reply on account of slurred speech. Your eyes fog and the sheets of white tuck in your walled retinas rendering you blind. The stains on your shirt left in residue at how you believed enough in yourself to feed her. Find the door you say, as you fall hitting the phone receiver. Your hand shrivels in stillness passing the age of elderly into death. There is nothing to fight for. She has won.