Write Something that Happened to you with the hurricane
Monotony. The only way to describe the feeling of drifting brought through a week of feeble inability. Displacement from the routine, the work, the current that is so very Ringling. Thesis? Unworkable. Art? Not doable. Writing? Implausible. A mind-numbing schedule forms, waking up in the late morning to the sound of shifting air and distant footsteps. Lazing through what becomes morning, waking friends for what becomes an evening of staring at a salvaged tv and desperately seeking to distract one another from the itch. The itch of productivity. We should be working, it’s there, hanging above us. Yet, each time one moves to do so obstacle after brutal obstacle make the work pace stagnant and stale. So we sit. Stare. Hope that were can pass the time long enough to avoid the madness we felt building at our position. You would never think a hurricane had displaced us, it felt distant and faded. We were distant. Were we going to have a home to return to? A routine to return to? We did not know.
Now- we return, climb back into the routine, the thesis, the creation process and I can only compare it to being wrapped back up in a lovers arm. After such a sudden, ripping separation- the relief of return is immense.
As if we are in the hurricane
In the eye of the hurricane there is quiet, for just a moment. Yellow skies. The song blares through your head- having seemed such a far away comparison before. Never did I expect to find myself relating to that in such a literal fashion, but after a tearing wind and ripping skies- there is quiet. A heavy thick quiet that hangs over as I realize that this must be the eye, those yellow skies I heard of in a distant musical. And it destroyed my whole town, I had no pen to write my way out. I just looked through the quiet at the devastation and prayed this would be the last, and yet if we are in the eye- this would not be it. Just a moment of quiet, long enough for the severity and reality of the situation to envelop every sense I have. I may not make it through this, and the helplessness of the inability to act weighs me to a single spot, overlooking the quiet.
In 1810
Monotony. The only way to describe the feeling of drifting brought through a week of feeble inability. Displacement from the routine, the work, the current that is University. Research? Unworkable. Studies? Not doable. Writing? Implausible. A mind-numbing schedule forms, waking up in the late morning to the sound of shifting air and distant footsteps. Lazing through what becomes morning, waking friends for what becomes an evening of staring at the clear skies we escaped to and desperately seeking to distract one another from the itch. The itch of productivity. We should be working, it’s there, hanging above us. Yet, each time one moves to do so obstacle after brutal obstacle make the work pace stagnant and stale. So we sit. Stare. Hope that were can pass the time long enough to avoid the madness we felt building at our position. You would never think a hurricane had displaced us, that we were running for our lives, it felt distant and faded. We were distant. Were we going to have a home to return to? A routine to return to? We did not know.
200 years in the future
Monotony. The only way to describe the feeling of drifting brought through a week of feeble inability. Displacement from the routine, the work, the current that is so very High College. Thesis? Unworkable. Art? Not doable. Writing? Implausible. A mind-numbing schedule forms, waking up in the late morning to the sound of shifting air and distant footsteps. Lazing through what becomes morning, waking friends for what becomes an evening of staring at salvaged tech and desperately seeking to distract one another from the itch. The itch of productivity. We should be working, it’s there, hanging above us. Yet, each time one moves to do so obstacle after brutal obstacle make the work pace stagnant and stale. So we sit. Stare. Hope that were can pass the time long enough to avoid the madness we felt building at our position. We had never thought we would be in the position with nothing to do- but with a lack of connectivity in ravaged nowhere United States, we had nothing. And yet sitting here- you would never think a hurricane had displaced us, it felt distant and faded. We were distant. Were we going to have a home to return to? A routine to return to? We did not know.
Now- we return, climb back into the routine, the thesis, the creation process and I can only compare it to being wrapped back up in a lovers arm. After such a sudden, ripping separation- the relief of return is immense.
Weather Effects Reversed
A sinking storm, that is their nickname. Such a silly sounding thing with such a devastating effect. A hole that rifts open our ocean- water pulling in, a riptide that will often tear land down with it. One such rip is opening, causing all water and land to be viciously sucked down into the abyssal earth. We run. Run far inland to a rural Tennessee locale where this will not drag us down. Horrific to think, but your town might be gone in mere days. Counting it down, begging loved ones to run with you, and a heavy realization in the pit of your stomach that this may be it.
“Enjoy this, it’s a vacation. Live it up.” It’s become a mantra for those around you. How are you supposed to live this up? We’re shell shocked, sitting and looking at each other in a permanent place of disbelief. None of our small band of fleeing friends want to believe that this is real.
We are left with Monotony. A feeling of drifting brought through a week of feeble inability. Displaced from our routine, our work, our creation. Thesis? Unworkable. Art? Not doable. Writing? Implausible.
Then a new routine forms. Lazing through what becomes morning, waking friends for what becomes an evening of staring at a salvaged tv and desperately seeking to distract one another from the itch. The itch of productivity. We should be working, it’s there, hanging above us. Yet, each time one moves to do so obstacle after brutal obstacle make the work pace stagnant and stale. So we sit. Stare. Hope that were can pass the time long enough to avoid the madness we felt building at our position.
We forget about running for our lives, we forget it all. it felt distant and faded. We were distant. Were we going to have a home to return to? A routine to return to? We did not know. So here we sit.
Blend it?
Hey fuckers, climate change is real. We shouted it in 2017, as two once-in-a-lifetime storms ravaged the southern US within weeks of one another. Now here we are, 2080. With half a continent, and no normal world to speak of. Hurricane evacuations? Thing of the past, at this point if you are meant to die, you will. Life keeps going, it keeps moving. Even as the fires come sweeping across this last bit- it’s better than the half thats currently underwater. And if the water comes here? We take it as an escape to the inferno.
A sense of complacency. We told them change needed to happen but now change will do no good. We will be extinguished as a race, and finally then the world will build anew. Repair itself. Move on without us holding it back.
Now all we have is a new type of monotony. A senseless, tired existence as we know that each action we take is for nothing. After this generation, the world may very well end as we know it. Most see little point in getting excited anymore- of creating anything just to watch it perish with the world.
A hazy new routine forms.
Monotony.
Live.
Breathe.
Die.
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