The moment I left I was enveloped by my tears. Marks on the highway meant nothing. The moments between breath and breathing seemed far too long. Everyone had something, or someone. And I , by choice, oh regrettable choice, found solace in lonely reflection. Spitting out words hardly adequate to hide, or to expose, the tragedy awoken inside.
Not because I had no bed offered.
There were plenty.
But because I had chosen none.
Not even the easy way out.
I didnt make it far.
A lonely bench in a lonely park called my name and bgged my acquaintance.

To hear, no, my tale wasnt' on the earthly wind.
To see, but what bench ever learned to read?
Ah, to feel, those things that needed to be shed.

Ink burned into pages.

The prose has taken me now and I feel at home.
At home int he cold open air.
At home on a hard plastic bench.
At home... with no one.

Alone is not such a sad state until the silence hits you.
Then you have a choice:
Find an outlet for your explosion of self-expression
Or drug the mind to take the pain of thinking away and bring oblivion that much closer.
Though sleep seemed far from all minds.
Mine most of all it seemed.
Perhaps it was the press of problems surfacing to greet me, in this moment between sleep and awake.
The sleep seems farther the higher the sun gets.

For now I have a breeze to blow away my sorrows and mist to hide my confusion. And until I find someone who takes their words and actions as seriously as they consider others I will need this time alone.

If only to contemplate these and other things.
Its my thing.
Its what I do.

Hide myself and observe.
And write.
Oh how ive missed it.
And oh how easily the words flowed once the tears came.

An endless cycle.

like most.

If you [Log In] as a member you can discuss this work with others