20 more days.
That's it.

Till the end.
Of course, it's just another beginning, but it's not quite that... it's just more of the same - as all things are, with different palates chosen for each scene.

The textures underneath remain the same - worn, but rough and cruel.
The world remains beneath our feet, our minds lifted high despite gravity's pull.
And where does it get us - these heads in the clouds?
But a Utopian vision we can never achieve - as the rocks remain rocks, the sand remains sand, and all is shifting, always, regardless of our personal whims?

The concrete and the theories are all one and the same... Perceptions of a fiction that none of us agree is true, but we've come to believe in it anyway.
There are those with physical prowess, or weapons and numbers at their disposal, that seek to control the rest of what is malleable in this world...
And there are those that may be molded, and those that will resist...

I may finally be at the point that I break.
And in 20 days, we'll find out what kind of clay I am... That which can be molded, that which will stand up to the abuses posed to it, or that which will break.
Despite already feeling broken. Despite my world view laying in scattered shards.
Despite the ending of the world I thought I knew, and the birth of a world I wish to have never known.

And that's just how it is...
Another day, another hour... another moment to live... to thrive.
Or to attempt to thrive and be oppressed by those that tell me I am free.
But what is freedom when one must answer to another - seek permission to do all things?
The mixed signals boggle me, and all I can do is try to stand despite the turbulence...
Rise above this shaky ground and find somewhere solid to build a place to live...

But that's not practical. Not realistic. And in the end, stability comes with a higher cost than the things I've lost to the shifting sands...