Amor Fati

These thoughts are old, and have all been said before.  By me.  By others.  By sleepless nights and the wind that shakes the shadows of leaves that decorate the bedroom wall.

I live in a house of spirits, and a different sort of specter hides behind every padlocked door.  We move about, ghosts trapped in lifeless bodies, carrying our hearts in buckets that rust in our clumsy hands.  We laughed once, didn’t we?  When our hearts weren’t dim and damnable memories of the blessed dirt they would become?

My house is stark white at the top of a steep hill, and people often stay the night.

When dawn comes, they have to go.  They will go, either forced or by choice, and it’s simply a matter of immovable time.

They are gone, the rooms are empty, and the house sleeps.

Goodnight.  (Goodbye?)

These thoughts are old, and will all be said again.  By me.  By others.  By sleepless nights and the wind that shakes the shadows of leaves that decorate the bedroom wall.