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Leaned up on some old building on some old corner in the pounding rain.
The dude stands watching the light dim over the gritty streets. His long hair clinging to his shoulders from the wet, black corderoy shirt flapping about in the wind.
His mind used to wander around, looking for meaning wherever he could find it, but now all that matters is the rain, the cold brick wall, his tattered boots and the nagging beat in the back of his head.
in all things we try. Always stumbling blindly on our paths faced with many choices and roads that you can't see for lack of light and there will never be light, not of the right kind.
All things man creates will eventually be destroyed. Washed away by the sea or the rain or swallowed up by the land itself. Nothing survives forever.
At the pinnacle of our success, as high as we can go we are also at our lowest point. There will never be a second chance for greatness, it passes by and slowly moves off into the distance.
And as you see it retreat, you reach out with a fumbling hand and grasp it with all your strength. It starts to slip out of your fingers, so you grip it tighter, until the skin on your ingers starts to split from the pressure, and the pain is so unbearable, almost as bad as the pain of losing your last chance.
Then, as it tries to escape your grasp, it speaks thus:
"Why you? Why do you deserve this moment?
You think yourself special. Favoured of god. Others have tried to catch me as you have, and all have failed. Why do think yourself different from them?"
Slowly, tearing flesh from your grasp, it moes away again, as if you weren't holding it at all.
The dude slowly takes a final drag on his cigarette, picks up his battered bag, and stalks off into the rain of the night.
Never looking back. Never looking forward. Longing for that second chance.
The one we all want the most.
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