our days are gone

by underswansea

RCE_0582

It’s thick with heat now. Plenty of summer left. The rain has stopped. The lake has leveled. The rise is behind. Tourist season is upon us. It can suffocate. I haven’t been able to figure out how to get each of them to reach into their pockets for ten bucks. That’s a trick I haven’t figured out. I don’t blame the tourists – stuck like rats in the city. Plenty of them come out here to die. Some of old age, while others get caught in accidents. Plenty of memorials at horseshoe rapids. Others in the Bugaboos. All along the highways. I get it, but I don’t. Sure it is beautiful out here, but I would want to die where I was familiar. The truth is we don’t get the choice. So memorials go up. Oldtimer Calgarians buy lots overlooking the lake. When they die their names go up on the post office wall like they lived here forever. Lost souls who didn’t put in the time.

It ain’t easy here. It can make you weary and mean.

I am an intermediate. Either side of me is where goodness lies. My back is broken. It’s the back roads where I find truth. I’ll smash a thousand doors to die right here.

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