Rust

It's 6pm and the sky is the colour I imagine it would be if today was the last day on earth; an omnipresent orange hue that pervades everything it touches. If I close my eyes it's almost too easy to imagine the world is ending. From somewhere comes the lingering smell of smoke. It's not raining, but every now and then there is a grumble of thunder overhead. I stand barefoot in the middle of my street and soak up this otherworldly feeling, like something sinister is brewing.

I want to go back inside to escape whatever it is that is clawing at my chest, but inside is filled with the sounds of a television reporting on yet more destruction; this time a heartless terrorism that is unfolding in France.

My heart is always breaking for everyone, little pieces chipped away by the unfairness of the world. I cannot remember the last time it broke for me. It's like D.H Lawrence said; "I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself." Perhaps not for itself, but surely even the wildest of things cannot help but weep for the members of its pack that howl in pain, broken down by the evil of the world.