/lit/ - Literature

The moon was laid quiet behind the curtains of a cloudy night, and all of time seemed to have frozen there in that sky. I was caught mesmerized, sitting in my car parked at the lot of where I worked, I was clocked out, dead tired, my joints were sore, and I was relieved to be done with another day of undead shuffling. The sky portrayed itself like a painting from the windshield, and I was plucked from the world around me. Reality only seems real in those kind of moments. The moments of awareness, of clarity, of stillness, the occasional dots on the short line that is our lives. Those dots represent those periods where we become aware of time itself, the now, and we come into ourselves totally aware as if to say "yes, I am here, I am living, now is now." Everything between those moments is just fuzz, it's unawareness. We go through the motions of survival, punctuated by brief moments of actual full bodied experience.

The charm broke off, I shifted into drive and I took off, my co-workers already ahead of me by minutes now. Ahead of me to see their family and talk about their day, to watch sports on TV or play videogames, to yell at their kids, to look at a miasma of contextually bankrupt internet jargon, to jack-off, or fuck, then sleep and go through it all again. Again and again and again and again. That's what life was all about in the end right? "Gotta feed the kids, gotta feed myself, gotta have a roof over me." Who could refute that? I wish I could, but here I was, just another fucking loser with no true dreams and no real answers. The universe is a prison for the living and a grave for the dead, it doesn't matter how you twist the materials.

Please advise, I am new to writing.

He stood at the window. Looking closely. Looking at the water droplets slither their way down the hazy glass, writhing, fighting to reach the bottom. Leaving their streaks of rainwater like a comet's tale. All of them passing by his gaze, as if their destiny were predetermined, greeting his gaze as they slid down below. Letting their individuality go as they combined into the common body of water; a stream in the gutter, quietly slipping into the underground depths.

He readjusted his eyes, the droplets and their tails blurred. Looking down four stories, people with umbrellas, with rain coats, hoodies. They passed by just the same. Scurrying from one end of the frame to the other, as if their destiny was predetermined, unaware of his gaze as they paced by. Fighting for their individuality, all dressed different, all moving in different directions. Nevertheless, their fate the same as a simple droplet of water. No more important in the end to him.

The cement was cold, and glossy. The pattering light rain couldn't cleanse the streets. The sun could only try to make it look nice, put a little glisten on it, something to keep romantics going. They all wore shades anyway, even in the rain.