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The clearing was the only place that I could finally come to the last thought, a correction could be made. That I should get rid of what plagues me, my wayward soul.
If no substance exists but I nonetheless feel it as though an eroding stone in the kettle pitch dark, with water clashing against the glistening rock face. It’s my face that’s sagging towards the earth. It’s drying up, and me, hunched over in the direction that flowers droop down.
She didn’t stand a chance of winning me over any more than I stood a chance of winning her. Because she was always against me, this place was always against me. It molded us, we hardened to a pose, her against me and I against her. The rest of our lives against each other, a polite charade.
But where do you go when the earth doesn’t pull anymore? Where do you go when the current runs out? What do you play when the games trickle from your hands? Who do you talk to when words are scattering sand? Carve me. Do it slowly.