Once in awhile, it is exhausting.

Once in awhile it is so exhausting that you lose your footing, you trip, you scrape your knees and hold them as they bleed through your bony fingers. And you sit and watch the rust red darken as it dries and crackles on your skin. What else is there to view? The sky above is endless and uncaring, oblivious and scattered with clouds that bounce over you comatose. The ground is a bowl that holds you in on all sides, walls sloping to meet up with the blue that hardly acknowledges its own existence, much less yours. And though the horizon beckons with the prizes of the faraway, how much of it truly exists? And why go there?

The light I clasp now in my lungs is aching.

I promise I will breathe fire again; I will hoist myself up on these arms as soon as I can tear my eyes from the crimson and purple my knees ail from; the cuts and bruises that hold me blankly as I imagine the sky is held by anything.