Author S. K. Nicholas

There’s no explanation, yet she’s always looking for one, just like the rest. All they ever seem to do is constantly search for answers- anything that will give them meaning. But there’s no meaning to any of this. The days tick away, as do so many lives that pass without merit. Words can shine a light, and love can heal, but brokenness is universal, just like death. Power gives us hope, and then it crushes our bones into glue. God saves and fails in the time it takes to open our eyes the morning after the night before. Money buys us lifestyles; it brings us the comfort of normality, and yet these placid ways of being are never more than lukewarm pleasures. Excitement for the rest comes in flashing lights and the ability to rise above the useless workers, but no one ever sees what needs to be seen other than those driven to madness. They chew their tongues and tails and more often than not are driven to take their lives rather than face one more day suffocating among so many pretences. The system wins because you let it, and even though you think you’re free, you’re just a cog in an infinite machine. Nature kills organically, but man kills in a thousand different ways before you even have the time to enjoy your morning coffee. It’s hell without you even knowing, but as I drink my beer and undress her with closed eyes, I’m happy to stand back and let the rest get on with it. Forever showing the world the face they think it wants to see, they don’t realise until it’s too late that this whole damned thing is as empty as a kiss given in sympathy. Sensations to cover the cracks, and mute applause to keep you safe from the thin line between life and the other side. Personally, I’ve always favoured the other side. It doesn’t lie. It doesn’t charm. All it does is silently wait. The early hours when the room spins; the moment she finally closes her eyes after crying herself dry. Stood looking out the window at the empty streets that never leave, this is all there ever is. It’s a vacant hour suspended in time. Cast adrift, we try to drown it in colour, but the shit doesn’t stick. We’re drifting into the dead future, and there’s nothing we can do to make it stop.