The Year of the Flame

The current of this life is flowing faster than I can move.
My limbs are heavy and burning, my mouth and nose sting
with the caustic, gagging taste of brine or blood.
I feel my shoulders dipping lower and
the waves crash with maddening impatience, pushing and pushing.
The black water trying to expel me and engulf me at once.
I am drowning.

From my 60th storey ledge I can see my future.
Mapped in a cold grey grid, lined with concrete and glass cases
that house everything I've ever owned and everyone I've ever met.
I'm not up here to jump. I'm up here to look, listen and plot.
From here I can see a grand plan, on the ground there is only
noise, dirt, pain and smothering claustrophobia.
So I climb, rising like the last gasp of a drowned man,
weaving it's way upward to rejoin the air it was pulled from.
From here I can see my future. My future is the very ground I fought
hand over hand to drag myself from.
I'm not up here to jump.
Jumping takes me back to the ground.
I'm up here to fly.
I stretch my arms wide, looking upward to my new destination.
The last sensation I keep is the touch of the wind on my face
and the roaring sound of my future rushing up to meet me.

Today is the last day of the year.
The sun will set and then rise on 365 new days of sparkling opportunity.
Clean slates; fresh, unspoiled snow; blank pages.
I can already smell the smoke, feel the hypnotic waves of warmth
from the un-set fires.
This will be the year of the flame.
Slate will crack, snow will melt and countless blank pages will
brown, twist and scatter as the fire consumes opportunity.
I will sigh and sway as the cackling tongues of gold evaporate my tears.

- December 31, 2004