Breathing in Circles

By Richard M. Ankers

A chest rises. A heart beats. Two synchronous lungs expel the waste of this life into a world gathering more. I’m breathing in circles, suffocating myself slower than slow. What’s worse, I want to.

Outside, indefinite people look at me in indefinite ways. There’s no reading them, these dark-shaded visages living in sonic worlds of their own. They stand as apart from reality, as I do from them. I’ve never felt so alone.

The clouds pass overhead in a lacklustre display of what was and what might never be repaired. Repaired! I sneer at my stupidity. It’s not like sticking a plaster on it. Something either is or isn’t. There’s no could or might or perhaps, not in the real world. Is this real?

The dogs go around in pairs here, but the cats wouldn’t dream of it. Shadows linger longer than they should. The night comes as a blessing, not a curse. The darkness disguises what the sun only ever reveals. This endless night is a balm to the barmy, succour to the suckers. But what is it to me?

These vitriolic outbursts define me. Unanswerable questions are all I know. I want more, though, to skip and play and laugh and dance and live. Yes, live. I want to live again. To be as a child, carefree and joyous. To believe in Father Christmas and not see him shot into red and white chunks. I want to play on green grass and dip my toes in azure water. These are my hopes and dreams. Are they too much to ask?

I remember when the air was precious, and the clouds rained clear water from only temporarily unclear skies. When the sun rose in tangerine segments and set in tomato horizons, this was my time, one of fresh fruit and nature. Now, the rain runs thick with filth, and thicker still when it strikes humanity’s work. The sewers fill with it and oceans choke on it. Yet, we do nothing, refusing to stop.

Breathing in circles, I term it. The unnatural act of un-purifying the soul, of topping up on chaos and drowning eyes open wide. I feel it in my every atom, see it in my dreams. I want to scream, to cry, but my box for a room has no door or window, and no one cares to listen.

Outside, a tree rustles one last leaf to the floor. A flower closes with a creak. A stream pleads for fish to swim its empty channels. Gaia groans her last.

The circle is closed.

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Richard M. Ankers is the English author of The Eternals Series, Britannia Unleashed and co-author of The Poetry of Pronouns Books 1 & 2. Richard has featured in Daily Science Fiction, Love Letters To Poe, Starspun Lit, and feels privileged to have appeared in many more. Richard lives to write.