To Write – A Method of Coping

There have been several setbacks, and I take full responsibility for them.

Due to my own stupidity, my tablet, Alfred fell quite ill, and I needed to purchase an entirely new Mobile Studio Pro. Once that’s all fixed up, a lot of overdue stories of traveling to and in the West will be posted at long last. I am still homeless, leaning towards broke, scarce on desired work, lonely and deep into a solitary agony that falls under the fulcrum of missing someone dearly, yearning for them, yet believing in them all the same.

But, the path to success is often paved with failure and a great deal of doubt from the outside surrounding.

Still, I believe all the same.

In moments as this, when the feeling becomes a deeper sadness, it helps me to free write, which I am about to commence.

The corners of his eyelids, perhaps they carried under his eyes, dark. They traveled sickly, and gaping though still containing spark. Hardly twenty eight and suddenly he was old. He had always been this way. While small, he liked to tell other children about the beauty of life, the tiny trembling instances unseen by a passing glance. He knew things then that the elders spoke of, he contained them now, but a tired shrinking sensation had caught him. In his throat, a tangled notch, down the hatch, a currier cultured in calamitous intrigue. These were only phonetic fascinations, did they mean nothing and everything simultaneously? Nothing, but something. Something he felt inside, vibrating bones. They’re bells. Perfectly spherical, one connects, all ring out. Aloud, he is alive alike the luminous speck of dust that floats by a window catching light, circulating the sound, a string nestled thinly in air.

He thought about her.

He thought about how beautiful she looked when she laughed. He wished he could be the cause that made her feel that, but his eyes watered briefly and the sadness beheld him as an old comrade who remembered the times in the foxhole when the airstrike loomed overhead, and a pat on the back, “We’ll make it out of here this time, Jack.” but, would they? He wondered if she would ever love him if he never burst into the industry, and remained a hidden little light who touched the hearts of those who were open to see. He would never give up, but he knew the fate well of so many hardworking dreamers who never broke through the ceiling. He believes he will do it, but the sadness is a beacon. It carries him back and it carries him further.

She’s always beautiful. It is warm, the feeling.

The odds are stacked, always hovering in silent slants, blackened faded edges of heels, rolling their eyes into their sunken skulls, rich with inked blood, constricted by their measure of self to see the real, to see that he is one of them, but perhaps they did know. Perhaps they were kind, not constricted. Perhaps they could see him and welcomed the new light, the one who could see too.

The figures were watching. From the ankle a soft triangular slant, shuffling in quiet courtrooms, their dimensions he could see only with a squint. The shadowy caravasses of heads and hands shifting about just out of sight, the ones he remembered from dreams long ago and every so often, only flickering their density in the corners of his eyelids.

There was a poet called The Blue Scolars. Once they said, “the water is the heart.” He liked the sound. He felt the rain through the spectral sprites of sunlight. They float perfectly distended, diamond-like, expanding, still.

They float.

That’s all for now. I’m going to start doing this more often. It helps me drastically to relieve this.. I guess you could call it, depressed spouts, but they’re faint and slow, they build up in this way.

Thank you for reading. It means mountains.

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