River Dixon

Lost in the Hours River Dixon

Well, here we find ourselves again. A place most familiar. Some merely visit from time to time, some trapped, others blink in and out. We find the way, occasionally, from these things, but always manage to return. Ever-searching, endlessly, for the tiniest scrap of understanding. So many are tired. Many more would abandon the task if they could. It's that rotted tooth, prodded with a swollen tongue. The splinter gone unseen, but felt against the tip of an arthritic finger, when brushed, ever so gently. It's between then and now, here and there, the rise and the fall. Sometimes circular in its containment, other times void of any form or structure. The wondering, the needing, the wanting. Those seemingly insignificant moments that offer the possibility of tomorrow. In it, we find ourselves once again, and when we finally muster the courage to look around us, it is discovered that we are not alone.