Could.i.dream.like.this
Do you know, how lonely it is, to live in a world like this?
I bestow insincerities as if they are wildflowers - spots of impermanent beauty amongst the opposite, excesses of concrete and glass.
And just as I pull them by their roots, I pull these words from my throat, spurs embedded deep, a single branch left unscathed to grow anew.
Did I ever ask you, back before we got into this whole mess, whether or not you were following me out of some sort of strange sense of self-sacrifice, thinking 'oh this pitiful thing I have indulged would surely wither away without me' and so stayed by my side, saying not a word on how you despised keeping your footprints beside mine?
Maybe I did ask you, once upon a time, when this whole thing started out, and maybe I didn't want to hear the answer.
Still, did you even think to ask me whether I wanted to play your tragic Helen, whether I wanted you to throw yourself into years of exile and metaphorical war for me? Or did you just think I'd be pleased that you thought of me with such objectifying regard.
In the evening
- not the earliest hint of morning as the sun finishes visiting the other half of the world
- nor the way our artificial lights cut through the darkness the sun attempts to abandon us with
No, it's the evening, just as we leave our chains of routine and schedule, when the night begins to hound and nip at the heels of day, it's then that we enter into a world unseen.
If I were to reach out my hand right now towards the sky, the dimly-lit stars, do you think they would see it?
Do you think the stars, those dimly-lit stars, are reaching out for us?
We are too small, but maybe they are too big, unable to find solace or company without fear of devouring it whole.
He's a cantankerous old man, angry at anything and everything, voice so loud it repels all forms of common sense and decency.
The night is much older though, so it waits and waits - for his skin to turn blue, for his blood to seep into the ground, for his bones to turn to dust.
She spoke all of her words and watched them fly away, red spots against the distant pale sky. To her left was a scarecrow, the right, nothing but vast lands far past what her eyes could see.
"What are you doing here," it seemed to ask her, "still, and afraid, and oh so lonely?"
"I don't know," she thought, crushing a ladybug beneath her boots.
writing since 2017 · 7 entries · 6 days shown up
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