The first part of this short piece, I wrote a couple years ago, not sure what I was doing exactly or why I wrote it, but the other day I was going through old writing and I kinda liked this one, and so I edited it just a tad and added the second part.
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The rain poured from the miserably grey sky. My sweat jacket and denim skirt were soaked and slapping against my legs at every step. I picked up another metal post from the pile and slowly sloshed to the barn, the mud sucking my loosely tied muddy tennis shoes down with every step and I thought I'[d loose them. Pushing the post through the barn window into the darkness, I watched it slide down and heard its end clang on the cement floor, my eyes followed the brown trickle of water run down the wall below the window I had just put the post through. Then turning I made my way back to the pile to get another post and start the short miserable walk over again.
Life's sky is grey, the atmosphere heavy, cheerless, the rain is drizzling miserably turning everything into thick, sticky muck, sucking at my heart and soul, sucking me down into it's dark depths, I'm carrying these heavy, rusty, problems back and forth between the pile and the barn, what's the point? It seems like endless drudgery. What's the point? At any moment I could just give up, stop moving back and forth between the rusty pile and that old battered barn window, why don't I? Just stop and let myself sink down, get swallowed up in the depths of that pitiful black mud screaming for me, the depression. Why do I keep moving?
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The rain poured from the miserably grey sky. My sweat jacket and denim skirt were soaked and slapping against my legs at every step. I picked up another metal post from the pile and slowly sloshed to the barn, the mud sucking my loosely tied muddy tennis shoes down with every step and I thought I'[d loose them. Pushing the post through the barn window into the darkness, I watched it slide down and heard its end clang on the cement floor, my eyes followed the brown trickle of water run down the wall below the window I had just put the post through. Then turning I made my way back to the pile to get another post and start the short miserable walk over again.
Life's sky is grey, the atmosphere heavy, cheerless, the rain is drizzling miserably turning everything into thick, sticky muck, sucking at my heart and soul, sucking me down into it's dark depths, I'm carrying these heavy, rusty, problems back and forth between the pile and the barn, what's the point? It seems like endless drudgery. What's the point? At any moment I could just give up, stop moving back and forth between the rusty pile and that old battered barn window, why don't I? Just stop and let myself sink down, get swallowed up in the depths of that pitiful black mud screaming for me, the depression. Why do I keep moving?
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