A Whistle

A whistle.

A catatonic mass.

So quietly sung that you can barely condone it. A raw morn, a snowflake cascading from above. It was a leaf at the top of a skyscraper, the rumpus of traffic below, rustling towards the vertex of the structure.

You search for the root of the sound, but see no one. You again flounce into the impending flurry to get home.

The show of your breath is chilling, much like the compressed air around you.

The murk ahead covers the solitary avenue. A mysterious figure presents itself. Your doppelganger walks adjacent to you on the opposite sidewalk.

Same hair and clothes. A mirror, standing precarious against a shop that lines the street.

The smoke of your frozen breath is released again into the surrounding air.

You are warm, yet the cold will eventually bite through the thin cloth. Eventually, the cold times of life will bite through your warm veil of happiness and good times.

Eventually.

You might not realize when it does, but it will. Oh, it definitely will.

Your Fate is predestined. Anything you think you changed.

I know.

I know most. Not all.

You can't throw Fate. But I digress.

The sun above you is a silver fish, writhing through the murky depths of the sky. There was no sun behind these dark clouds. There was never a sun, it seems.

The noise in the distance, a large bell singing its praises.

Birds take flight on silver black wings. A feather, taken from flight, rolls through the chilled air until you are facing its blackness like an impending storm.

It floats to the ground, pure, untouched, undisturbed in its flight until it was stopped by the ground.

The sea, restless before your feet, inches away from your residing toes on the shore.

The crashing of the waves and rocks are a battle, a civil war. Sides were taken, and the war will never end. Even if the rocks are removed or the sea reaches its icy hands across this shore no more, the rocks will bear its injuries, as will the sea.

The fog is stifling, choking your lungs with its tight grip. The light, if any is present, is cloaked with gray.You begin to walk through the foggy mist.

The sidewalks, straight, narrow.

Empty.

Your twin is nowhere. She will not be missed.

The slumber. The slumber of your beating heart has not registered until now. Why? Why was this not inscribed?

Open! Open the windows and doors! For the sun has appeared! Let it in, bring it a cup of tea, for it will not be in town long.

Everything looks softer with its rays upon it. Everyone the slightest bit happier.

The store clerk, the gas attendant, the doctors secretary. The school teacher, the office worker, the hospital nurse. The people waiting in line. The prisoners. The loved ones of the sick.

But not you.

The sun is a stupendous tragedy on your gloomy day.

But alas, the sun once again is swallowed by the clouds, taken hostage once more.

For the sun will never stay out forever.