Untitled and Unfinished - Bill Randall 2007

Uncertainty weighs heavy and thick, much the way the humidity hangs in the air of the Dixie summer; like Spanish moss in the costal oaks or Confederate Jasmine suffocating the abandoned hedgerows of what was once the carefully manicured estates of my future, my dreams. Clarity obscured like the marsh in the morning mist. Emotions turbulent and muddy like a river swollen with the rains of misfortune and strife. The sun will rise. Lifting with it the misty veil and revealing truth; certainty. But what truth? And the certainty of what? For it is not the misty veil nor the turbulent waters that cause me to shudder and hide but rather the terror of not knowing what lies beyond. The paradox of having complete uncertainty except for the certainty of a new uncertainty creates an emotional vertigo that could send even the strongest spiraling down to depths normally left unexplored, undocumented and relegated to the realms of mythology and nightmares. And few who fall prey will ever break the surface again, drowned in their own confusion and uncertainty.