28 Jun 2012

I am numb as the day pours over me and solidifies into the past. While I am still soft and pliable, still able to change, I sit as if waiting for the end of the world, as if all action were meaningless. Thought is too heavy: the wheels of my perception are thick and made of lead, too much inertia to move. Thought is too light: it floats off before I can make sense of any pattern. Time is a messenger whose tongue I do not understand, only to realize so much later that something important was being said. I only wait. While somewhere, at any given time, someone’s heart is being broken, I have only a dream that love ever was — and I envy those who have felt enough that its lack is painful. I imagine I am a fool. And I guess, in the end, no one ever promised me a future — it’s just that I look around and there is all this present going to waste, with nothing to wrap it up in and bring it home.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

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