It’s Dark Outside

If an unthinkable fall from grace occurs after a lifetime of belief and faith, this document will be the last thing I will ever write.
As of now, my fate inconceivably hangs in the balance. I’ve circled the wagons. I’ve dispatched the carrier pigeons. Smoke signals for days on end. Log drums continue to take a beating.
Not even a passing acknowledgment from the peanut gallery, nor a sign from above.
Nothing.
Has it all come to this? This nothing? This prickly blanket what smells of irrelevancy and so what?
Funny thing is... I’m pleased now when I catch a glimpse of the person staring at me from the mirror, a long time in the making. Yet it’s all I can do to open my doors to greet the horror of what lies in wait; a world inside-out, upside-down, bursting with lock jawed indifference, craven choice, hang dog confusion, a land of no cheer. This is not my home.
The ebb and flow of my currents never once failed me. But today the water is dead still. No wind. No birds. No clouds. No sky. Just silence. A pine box of nothing.
And I wait. I wait for the lurching waltz to return; staggering down gilded alleyways, a lusty, beautiful woman on my arm, where I belong.
Yet, when I think this existence can’t suffer another injustice, I’m brought to my knees again and again by bare-knuckled brutality. No love. No caring. No understanding. No eleventh round magic in sight. And I wonder...
Has it all come down to this? This nothing? This shadow of self, a shadow that never moves or runs away, to flee the sun’s shine that invariably devoured it?
It’s dark outside. Where is the light? When will it be time to come out and play, play as if you will live forever and make a difference? Will the dawn dare show its face ever again?
A piano keeps playing those sad, mournful notes, notes that echo time imortal and give no hope, no transcendence, only predictability, conformity, a color I don’t even recognize.
Amidst the howling, bestial wail I listen carefully for the rhumba, where I will not hesitate to take my beautiful woman by the hand and dance until we are so far away, we are but a wisp, a blink of an eye.
So much to give, I am here. I am ready. I am nothing if not love. Surely the rhumba will return, surely...
Yet here I sit, drowning in nothingness, my existence a rotting corpse spinning aimlessly in brackish backwaters of a diseased river.
This is not my beautiful world.