Anxiety.
It’s the precarious nature of the sun.
The sun will fail us one day.
The terrible fatal stinging gusts will render us nothingness.
It will be brutal, skin melting, flesh scorching and darkening.
It’s the knowledge that the orb will lose it’s force and we will be enveloped in ashen burn.
It’s the intense feeling that everything we stand on is of brittle moths’ wings.
The stable worn rug will be tugged from under our blistered feet, and the anxiety will become a newborn energy, alone and fleeing to another residence located somewhere amidst the history of our minds.
Our peace will be the dark cloud of “zero”.
Our music will the the memory of Bukowski’s words strewn on unpublished pages we were never priveleged enough to lay eyes upon.
Our truth will be that anxiety lurked and pounced at the precise time to save us.