We sat in a dimly lit dining room,
waiting for the apocalypse.
dialled up the static,
turned down the saturation,
changed the channel.
I didn’t know it could feel like that
until it did.
Like standing on the train tracks,
bracing for the impact.
Like watching a distant wave
wash away a city and knowing
It felt like dread:
When it came,
the palace walls crumbled
and my eyes were prised wide open,
forced to gaze upon reality
for the first time.
that I was not immune
and that anything was possible.
late night dystopian visions
played out on a projector screen
in my head –
war, famine, suffering, death:
everything was on the table.
Distant possibilities appeared
magnified, filling up my
Sanity is a tightrope
and bad news broke my balance.
Stray comments sent shockwaves through me,
feeding the fear of a bleak future.
superstition and solipsism
seeped into the mainline,
insisting that everything would be fine.
I blocked it out,
treasured rare moments of peace,
realised it was too large a part of a life
to waste wishing I could
The dream became normality
and normality became the dream:
a utopian fantasy.
A year later,
we’re in that same dining room,
waiting for normal service to resume.
We sit like survivors,
hoping the light at the end of the tunnel
isn’t just the flickering of false hope,
a faltering torch light,
or the fading embers of a fire,
threatening to give in to the gloom.
The panic subsides,
new problems surface,
old demons rear their head,
time trudges on:
The background hum of a humdrum existence
is a death by a thousand cuts.
In what we hope is the final leg
of the interminable slog,
the track stretches straight ahead
toward a future that approaches
no matter how deep our rumination
or frantic our inner anxieties.
Our knees may buckle but we must walk on.
The day will come.