I find great beauty in desolate places. In the rusted decay of an ancient machine, there is a peace and a balance.
And in the sun drenched wind beaten windowless ruin of a desert shack, I find it a reflection of myself.
Sometimes I wonder if I have anything left of what it takes to go on. If in this tale, the wolf has not won.
Here in the path is the Alpha. As he snarls and bares his teeth, my foot slips back almost involuntarily and although I know
I know if I run away, that I am prey and the game is over- but not quickly and not without pain.
I know the only way is forward, that behind me in the darkness waits the pack. And so I must decide to step forward
And to charge with my teeth bared. To be the bigger wolf.
Sometimes I wonder if I have become too brittle for this world- too prone to tears
If those darker impulses have not already won. If I can’t hold on. If I can’t confront…
If those difficult things that lay before me are the choices I will make
Or retreat into the darkness and be devoured by the pack.
I think of gears and wheels and motors. Of function and oil and grit. Of rust and time
Outside the wind howls and inside the whole house creaks and groans.
And I think of that derelict, abandoned bit of rusting and encrusted equipment half buried in the sand. A boom from some dredge? Or something of a bit of drilling equipment? Is this the last act of defiance? To not fade into the desert sands? It stands its ground. The rust a bright red over layers of browns and orange- in streaks and drips and flakes on the horizontal panels. and here a bright yellow of what remains of the faded paint. And there are bird droppings and in some way I see it
Not lost and functionless
But surviving- however scarred and damaged and sorrowful.