The Sun Always Rises

My sad bastard/suicidal/silly mood continues...I wrote this earlier today in honor of officially ending the deadblog, and in loving memory of it.

I will never forget you, deadblog. Pluck your daisies, and float down stream...


I step out the door, and the sun isn't rising. It's black. And dark. The air is still. The grass wet. I hear nothing, but nothing is nice for a change. The still, quiet air...the moments between night and morning...yesterday and today. I'm smoking in a tight pink trench coat. Hat lowered, blocking my eyes, not from my own sight...I see just fine, but from the sight of others...I'm shaded.

I'm lighting my cigarette and walking into the nonexistent sunrise.

I stop on the bottom step of the deck and pluck a daisy for my Baby Girl. Shame to kill something living, and something so pretty...and surely she'll rip it to pieces. If it makes her happy, though, I don't mind.

I put the flower on the dash, and start the car...I'm backing out into the muddy driveway. Rain the day before...and dark clouds looming now where the sun goes. I roll down my window and blow smoke. I turn up the radio.

I'm singing loud, and smiling. When there's no one in the passenger seat, you can sing as loud as you want. You can block your eyes from the others sight, and keep hidden as long you like.

I drive to the highway. I watch cars passing, both coming and going, in all directions. People in cars singing and smiling, and they don't know I'm watching, and some of 'em do. They wave. They smile...what is she singing? Where is he going?? Strangers passing, but on the same road.

We're all going somewhere...and I'm far from home. I'm almost there...I begin to slow. And park to the side of a grassy curb. There's a break in these trees I've been wanting to capture...when the sun finally rises, I'll see it here perfectly.

The treeline. The skyline. The powerlines. It's all in sight as I toss my hat aside, and there's my eyes, all smiling, joyous at the thought of what I'll save from this day, and show to those who are searching for something...the peace of knowing that others are here. That somewhere, in the deep south, there's a girl who watches the sunrise...she waits for it, and waits for it. Day after day. And she never stops waiting for it, though she wants to at times. She walks on decks, and pretends she's smoking, blowing her breath in front of her, the cold. She pretends to wear hats like Bogart. And she never much wanted Bogart, as much as she wanted to be him.

The tough guy. The detective. The man no one can love.

I steady my hands, and I'm waiting...

The sunrise. It's coming. High above the green.

It's been hiding, but there it is, bright and shining. Warmth and rebirth, and it'll try, this time, to stay above the treeline...the powerlines. It wants to be seen. No more dark clouds for taking cover...the excuses for the gray days, and the rain that is needed, lest nothing grows. Too much rain, though, brings flooding, and a flood can wash it away...into ditches, rivers, and manmade holes.

I see no clouds, no rain. Just wet grass reflecting the sunlight that breaks through the blue skyline, rising, climbing...I feel the heat on my cheeks and I'm smiling. I'm glowing. It's a new day of another day, another week, another month...and the years pass as I click away, taking pictures to prove it. Writing stories to share.

It's real and it's here.

Briefly shaded, but again alive.