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He said we were all bouncing balls, going to fall. He said it suddenly with conviction, as if he knew. And as if we listened. I didn’t. I doubt the others did.
Flecks of plaster stuck to my hair, made me wanna sneeze, slightly colored if you squinted, as if she was still lingering there, you know?
Now, of course, i wish i had. Listened.
It would have spared me the wild cheep chase. Running after and running toward.
He said hearts cannot be broken. Only scarred. But that was worse. HE said we all had it coming. He had seen it, and it wasn’t pretty.
I have to admit it had me rattled for a while. Once i remembered his words, or trying to, grasping for air inside the gates. I could afford myself some introspection, now
that i had made it here.
What are you aiming at? Apart from the immediate, i am not so sure.
He would agree it wasn’t bad. But he would ask for more texture. More to grind. Less space. He carried himself that way.
I saw him on the way to the library. He would go there for the smell. It replaced home.

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Mean looks mean. Curiosity can be hemmed in, but not drowned. To accomodate it is necessary to allow a free rein, within the boundaries of the concept. This is modern, useful approach. This is pragma, when results and not appearances matter. You can forget the guilt trip, it does not compute in this environment. Just look out for the green, ever moody, likely to shift on a whim.  You got to work with me baby. Don’t make the mistake of thinking.  This is more about feeling. A touchy subject I know. And Aldred…no let’s not go there. I must obey the rules. I will obey the rules. The rules are mine. I rule. Think for yourself. Feelings are overrated. This feed is monitored. 

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It pisses me off. You know what I mean? The constant to-and-fro. The mimicking. The mediocrity. The shallow sages. Here they were, perfectly happy to waste it all. And you. What did YOU do about it? Me, I need to get it out. Me, I need to absorb it all. Please, don't keep me waiting. Let me know how you are dealing with it. You know the drill. Let it rip.

Is sharing caring?

  Looking out the window. It looks gray. After a lot of hours, the family comes home, one by one. As they left, I lay in bed. When they get home, I'm in bed. They look a little longingly at my pillows, warm quilts, piles of magazines and books. Maybe they're thinking they'd like to swap with me. I'd love to switch. Updating my status on FB, getting some comments pretty quickly. People who feel sorry, and who tell of their own accident stories. I've been through that before. When an acquaintance, friend or relative dies, I often hear my friends talk about their own experiences of death. I used to get a little confused by that. I wondered why it felt so important to compare accidents. Or even compete a little in them. Now, with window views of slowly approaching days, I'm struck by another thought. Maybe it's their way of understanding and dealing with difficult things. To relate it to themselves, and their own lives. Perhaps, therefore, sometimes it is easier