... wake up dead...
… wake up dead…
Peter Hunter
… losing the will to live was in itself disconcerting, but combined with things we could not control was almost to abandon hope, deny optimism and surrender to gods not just denied but entirely unacknowledged…
… in the case of Gabriel Watkins, mere superstitions derived from fables…
but the journey…
… that uncertain trek he was about to undertake, unsure of distance and duration, a task that could tax his resolve and sap the determination he no longer possessed the conviction for....
and Gabriel had no horse - neither metaphorical nor of flesh and bones…
… two heavy boots alone would have to serve him - aided by his stout staff of trimmed holly - straight and strong - that he had cut from a transient hedge the previous autumn…
… these were poor things…
… simple scant possessions with which to survive… but he was not certain that he really wanted to continue to exist. Perhaps he was trusting any, whatever slight future to that barely understood fate…
… like destiny… could it be a cyber coin tossed into a virtual atmosphere to see where it landed and what it brought…
Coins, words, intended deeds - all scattered hopefully up into that virtual sky without form or structure - all pitched, then surveyed randomly to see if they landed with any pattern, form or meaning…
… a pitiful attempt to solicit order from a rapidly disintegrating world.
Oh - how once hopeful ambition had morphed into that eventful lottery of old age…
… just awaiting the turn of death's card…
© Peter Hunter 2013
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