In the House of Crumbles

In the house of crumbles, I tapped at my computer. All the gilt had peeled off the walls, leaving the frescoes looking guilty at their naked partners across the room. Not that I noticed, engaged as I was in this ancient piece of machinery. I barely noticed when a sheet of plaster dropped from the ceiling and shattered on the floor mere inches from my shoulder. I tapped. And tapped. Eventually the lights went out. Eventually a pipe burst. Eventually the water slowed, dried and the pipe rotted away. When my chair collapsed, I sat on the floor. When the floor caved in, I held the monitor tightly and tapped, tapped, tapped. Eventually, the vines came. Then the bugs. Then the beasts. The house of crumbles was neither house nor crumbled. And still, I sat and tapped. When my computer was nothing but dust, I looked up at the heavens and read the stars. I’m there still, if you can find me. Staring and reading about you.

 

A momentary break

Yesterday I surfaced in what felt like the first time in months. 

Gasping for air, I floated on the surface of my life and breathed. I can't tell you how long I'd been under there, and I refuse to look, because I can see them, still swimming dangerously close to where I am.

The swim is not over. Hell, the adventure hasn't really begun.

But, so far, I have survived. That is no small feat.

I awoke feeling the sun on my face for the first time in what felt like ages. The water is cold, but I appreciate the light. It makes me lazy this morning and I hurry through the day to make up for my lost time. 

Around noon, I take a deep breath. It's time to return to below the waves, in the home of these dangerous fish. If I can make it to the boat before the fish eat me, my adventure will be well and truly off. 

I submerge myself and know no more.