Inertia: an object will remain at rest or in uniform motion in the same straight line unless acted upon by external force

Sunlight pours through the blinds, worthless contraption of plastic they are for what little good they produce. Startled by the undulation of the orb of heaven she wakes. She doesn't care about dangling modifiers and passive voice at a time like this. All that matters is the cold sweat on her brow and the strange smell pervading the room. Her hand darts out beside her, grasping nothing but cold sheets and air, yet her skin is aflame with memories of a waning vision once dancing behind her eyelids.


When had it been before? Some other morning she woke frightened not knowing why... some other year perhaps? Life seemed nothing more than a tangled skein where was once an ebb. Hers was no longer a wave but an abandoned shore beckoning some foreign substance, not knowing where the sea had gone and left it thus, empty, alone, and unrenewed. Grain by grain, those sands eroded, leaving behind a hollowed husk of some former grandeur only existing, now, as bittersweet, slightly fashionable, decay.

To what do we owe this honor--this selfish self-absorption that denies others entry into our narcissism, for the heart no longer exists as anything more than mechanics. A pump that fuels the monotony of our pained and unequalled existence in which we suffer ourselves undeniably for the rubberbands caught in the teeth of its gears. She randomly recalls Shakespeare, particularly the lines she memorized so many years ago... "did my heart love 'til now? Forswear it sight! / for I ne'er saw true beauty 'til this night." What good did it do you, Romeo, who killed himself in the name of adolescent lust and lack of understanding to the ways of the world? Where was love in those split moments? True love? The kind of love that seizes the soul and holds it captive? For is it not the soul the organ, if you will, that produces love? Our pumps merely catalyze physical response in fight or flight and in your case, good sir, lust.

Crossed are not those points of light glistening before my eyen. They are deliberately distanced to remind us the degree of separation between one human to another. Orion chases to no end, no avail, just as a dog chases an uncatchable tail. A 'lover' catches an incurable disease which causes nothing more than his own ruination and despair; there is no point to his fool's errand. For only a fool would believe in requite.