Ashland
I miss so much that it has become a geography, a landscape of sorrow. I walk in it. Circles. Pointless to whine about it. Pointless all around. Maybe one day I will wake up different.
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There is a painting of me, straying off a path into the woods. Like that: I am lost. I feel abandoned. Pointless. Inertia is the only thing. I am tired…all the way down to my dreams.
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The world gets small enough to fit inside your head. There’s a gray desolation in memory. Nothing from nothing equals nothing.
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I never knew I could be so sad for so long. The world teaches hard truths. It is exhausting. I believed foolish things.
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And here, now. In the place built from what remains, after the flame has left the wick.