I can feel the tide is rising. I'm on my knees, I don't think that I have any power left on my arms to push myself from the ground. No strength left in my legs to stand up, turn and walk.
I can feel the quick sand moving. And I'm on my knees, my hands sinking slowly. I can't see my fingers, my knees. I can't see nothing in front of me. Only the soft and chilly embrace of the welcoming burial.
I know that it is getting darker. Yet, I'm on my knees. My eyes adapted to it ages ago, yet I sense that this time it is different. There is no star in the sky to gaze into, the moon said goodbye years ago, no brightness on the eastern horizon that made it bearable, nothing to wait, no future to dream of. Faces that flows in front of my sight, none of them smiling, I can only imagine worry, sadness, heartbreak; in so many beautiful eyes once filled with joy and sympathy.
I can hear that the silence is getting louder. Still, I'm on my knees. My old, tired heart; tar oozing from its countless scars and cracks; beats faintly. Like the rustle of a an old rocking chair lonely shaking on the porch of a decaying house in the desert. No soft whispers of comfort left, no angry shouts, no moans of pleasure or cries of pure pain, no silky smooth words of love, any giggle or laughter. All I can hear is a disappointed silence, a silence that I've deserved decades before it enveloped my ears, my mind, my soul. No music left around me, not anymore, like it abandoned me, I cannot even recall how many years ago.
The madness went away, followed the footsteps of the sanity that engraved these many years ago. I'm just on my knees, looking to what I imagine these faint marks they've left might resemble. The emptiness is suffocating, the compass I thought would never break has no needle in it anymore. The writings have disappeared with every breeze, or the waves that hits the shores of my broken mind. It was about time that one of us would retire.
The gust is turning into a storm, taking away all the sweet smell of dreams that burnt with the fire of what is real. I'm stunned on my knees. The happy scent of spring, the scent of your shampoo that colored my hopes whenever you've opened your hair, the opaque smell of rotting corpses that were killed with my words or gaze. I cannot remember what were they like.
No more tears left in my soul, to escape my eyes and march down the ugly landscape that they have eroded all these decades. Why am I still on my knees? What left in me to not fall and crumble? Get washed away by the tide of all these emotions? Get swallowed by the swamp and suffocate in loneliness? Get lost in the dark, that I see in the bloody eyes of the misery that I endure every time I look at the mirror? Get deaf by the screech of the silence of my long awaited demise? Get carried by the slightest breeze away from who I supposed to be, like a paper boat without an anchor or destination?
I will sleep peacefully, when the clock doesn't tick anymore. When the last sand of the hourglass will fall down from its eroded cracks. When all the images will fade, and my darkness gets drained from every soul that was so unlucky to endure my touch. When my cracked voice won't be echoing in the beautiful minds, minds that were poisoned by my presence. When the last drop of tear that I made fall will dry. When my name is misspelled and mispronounced. I will sleep peacefully, when my last story that made you laugh or shiver will be told and forgotten forever.
I have said all my farewells in the last couple of weak heartbeats, all of them in my lonesome mind. I know that some of them deserved to be said out loud, very few of them would wanted to be heard. If only I wasn't so afraid that my darkness would slip though the cracks of my last warm smile.
