Thrusting greyward

I woke up on my back in the middle of an empty stadium. Staring above at greying sky. A slight breeze coming. Sitting up, I am alone in this place. The seats - empty. No game today? I thought for sure the M’s were playing the A’s. Where is everyone?

All I remember is a face. Broadcasting through a massive web. A man’s. Staring at me. Expecting god only knows what. And a sick nauseating emptiness slowly coming over me. And then gone.

I will not hold your hand while you try to understand me. So if what comes next fails you completely then resort to labeling me – therein lies your safety.

Did you know that there is a moment when ‘broken’ cannot capture the essence of what we become when we realize the absurdity of time – or more to the point - the unmiracle of our kind? When they, like cockroaches, flutter and flitter before us, as if instinctually knowing how powerless they make us feel, and smash us to pieces within a self-projected horror field.

I don’t know where I am. No, I think I do. The point is, I don’t know where you are. Any of you. There was supposed to be a game here today. But my head hurts now. And there is static electricity in the air - a storm is coming – has come.

But in that former place, I know I requested to be at ground zero. I boasted that I wanted to experience the event horizon – to bleed sunshine. And part of me knows that I am there now. Or here, where I have taken the stadium. Claimed it for myself, having won nothing, for I am nothing without you - my accomplishments cannot be completely realized without them first having been observed by you.

Dew stained grass thrusting greyward through swollen fingers – there is peace in this holocaust.