scijessreads

The soul is tired. Stretched thin. Frayed at the edges and licking wisps around the body as it seeks to fill in the spaces and make itself whole again. 

But there is nothing left to fill in the gaps. 

The fight becomes a tedious task – stepping one foot in front of the other, sinking each time into the mud and sliding backwards. It’s hard to see progress. It has become Sisyphus.

Constant. With no resolution. 

The help is lost. At every horizon it glimmers, a mirage. Nothing of substance comes out of it. An echo of faint solidarity. 

Lost to the chorus of the mob. 

The hope is fragile. A tiny flame, cupped in shaking hands, buffeted by winds that seek to snuff it’s warmth. It flickers. It dies out. 

Yet…

The embers still glow.