literature

The Transit

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Purple-Fearie's avatar
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Literature Text

It isn't the place I am going, but the transit from the place I am in, that pains me. I didn't know that footsteps could sound lonely, that I would need to find new words for break and shatter to describe the inconsolable feeling of my ability to speak being ripped away molecule by molecule. I didn't know familiar routes could be disdained, that embarrassing events could be yearned for, a solemn sniffle and tears, merely from conversations with kind strangers. Perhaps it is all going to be ok; but not, I think, today. Quite a shock, pleasant, though hesitant, to realize home is a fluid thing, moving with something it is impossible to follow every moment. Panic grips my mind. A rather unforgiving fiend, ache of my heart wrenches my guts and forces me to admit that I am not well, without certain things is only to make due. If only, the constancy of Chinese water torture. If only, the variety of road trips with no foreseeable end.
I wrote this a little while ago, and found it on my laptop recently.
I like it quite a bit actually, but I do need a bit of advice!
In this same word document, this particular piece of prose continues. But, the continuance is a completely separate line of though (like I may have just written two pieces in one place). SO, should I include it or not? It is below.

What are you, once tulip canary, housing in my open birdcage ribs?
Life, death?
Neither?
Devoid of meaning?
Lines in the middle of the night and early morning are always the best. But for naught if they are forgot.
Paint splatter rust, it flows like blood but is much more (or less) severe.



Here's to .
~P-F
© 2010 - 2024 Purple-Fearie
Comments4
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seanfhocal's avatar
The second piece looks seperate. I think it deserves a title of its own.