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That Ache by Ray Printer Friendly

It’s not always, but it’s enough.

Dark things in the mind that bring tears to the eyes, lost times that bring feelings of remorse. The future isn’t wide open, but rather stifling, suffocating, buried-alive nothingness. Wrecked dreams with jagged edges, rusty and angry and everywhere.

Crumbled buildings and stained oceans and fallen stars—these are the things left inside at the end of the day. Newly-born fawn limping across busy highway, desperate fish bucking itself across dry rock.

Isolated in a self-constructed room, padded, but poorly padded—enough for the illusion of safety, if it weren’t for the bare spots of forgotten care. We weep into muddy hands, more of a mess, more of a mess, the tears won’t clean.

Visions of a bent bicycle wheel, spinning without confidence, shattered brick underneath, uneven and uncaring. Weeds, dead with rot, reaching through like withered fingers into a world that wants nothing with them. There are no smiles here, the loss is perpetual.

The thing that pushes, that encourages, that drives us to continue, it scratches: a beast at the window on a moonless night; the question is whether it’s trying to get in or out.

It’s not always, but it’s enough.


posted 11/30/07


Comments:
Entered By Anonymous From Unknown
2007-11-30 21:51:52

And now you know why I weep. Have some more hydrocordone.


Entered By Ray From Austin
2007-11-30 23:30:50

Somehow, Anonymous Poster, you have managed to fit more sadness in those two sentences than I managed in the entire post above. Congrats.



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