Fade

The first month has passed. It's a cliche to say that time flows faster the older you get. Just like a tired and politically incorrect stereotype, sadly, sometimes it's true. It's racing now, galloping along, and all I can do is hang on for dear life, arms wrapped around the furious beast as it snorts and hustles and speeds down the track. Looking back over where I've been, it all seems so close, like I can just graze my fingers over the texture of my past, hold it in my palms and let the sand trickle through my fingers. But I can't. As soon as I look over my shoulder at my history I lose sight of where I'm going, travelling so fast that I find myself wrenching the steering wheel and anxiously correcting my course. The strangest feeling is driving down this highway with headlights dim as candles, everything beyond the faint glow buried in the pitch black of midnight. There's no point trying to navigate the journey using the stars anymore, this one's shooting and that's a plane, a satellite, a mirage. As I become ever more entrenched in the stream, I find that the truest compass is instinct, as illogical as that may seem. Instinct and impulse, these are my GPS, my position in time-space. These are my beacon, the light inside that shines brightly while I continue to fade...