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Journals
Forever Updating* Forever nonsense
1. Apple under the Walnut Tree
The walnut had a strange texture—almost ethereal, a touch from out of this world. I clutched my fanny pack and glanced toward the park bench where an old man in an orange suit sat. He glared, sensing my unpleasant visual intrusion; I meant no harm, but curiosity had hijacked my consciousness. Panicked, I jolted, unbuttoning my sleeve to force more air into my lungs. Head down, like a toddler in timeout, I let anxiety take total control. Then, an apple—the size of a pear—rolled into my line of sight. The comedic timing felt unnatural. Shadows embellished both me and the stranger under the walnut tree; but there was never a tree, an apple, nor a walnut. I wonder... do walnuts even grow on trees?
2. The Impetration
Another day in the yard; I let the abandoned atone for my feelings. Let me, for once, be free in this wingless sea of kraits. Would a voice be lost if the voiceless voiced their thoughts loud and clear only in their heads? Would the person next to me even be heard if she opened her lips—or would the mark of dried saliva linger so impatiently it prevented the opening from happening at all? Would a person impetrate what they desire with no care for what is to come? Only in my imagination could I conceive of such a thing.
3. Blunt Whisper
Have you ever let a fire hydrant knock you off your track? You might have been on the wrong path already, but now, you are more lost than ever. He steeds, then stands in the middle of a pit—sand blurring his vision while color hears his yearning. The wind blows violently against chins once cradled, now scarred and blushed red. His brain, numb from processing, finally surrenders control. And whoever is piloting now? He, too, is blind. These are whispers from nobodies, and these nobodies are his somebodies. Please, do give him a listen.
3. Blunt Whisper
Have you ever let a fire hydrant knock you off your track? You might have been on the wrong path already, but now, you are more lost than ever. He steeds, then stands in the middle of a pit—sand blurring his vision while color hears his yearning. The wind blows violently against chins once cradled, now scarred and blushed red. His brain, numb from processing, finally surrenders control. And whoever is piloting now? He, too, is blind. These are whispers from nobodies, and these nobodies are his somebodies. Please, do give him a listen.
4. Up at Night
My knees are weak; my ankles gave up a long time ago. Dropped from the tip of the valley, I see the clouds waving at me midair. The birds laugh, the branches clap—even my hands uncontrollably find each other. A downfall from uptown. I never saw it coming until this day saw me coming. Eyelids shut tight, I soak it all in. Not giving up, but close to it. My emotions and my organs acknowledge the inevitable as the ground beneath hurries closer... then I open my eyes for the fiftieth time
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