The feelings are still there- just nick the surface, and they pool out like warm blood
Days spent at home, nothing really to do.
Just sitting and reading.
Listening to albums.
Waiting.
For the mail to come- as the highlight of the day.
Because there might be letters. From someone for me.
I could then sit down and write back, right away.
Then re-read the letters. And place them in a box.
and Reread them some more.
so spending time.
And reading.
And re-reading.
And waiting.
And watching.
And wanting.
And needing.
And boredom.
And necessity.
All not really a life.
But part of a life.
Spent not really in the rest of life.
Outside of it.
Marginal.
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2 comments:
yes. for those with the ability to step outside the cycle and see the cycle, it's an inevitable purgatory. i am eternally pissed at those who utter the insuferable cliche: "life is short."
are they blind? it's the longest thing we do.
It's basically all we do. And I'm pretty sure I haven't perfected it yet. I'm working on it...
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