It hurt to try and open it.
So, I did what I’ve always done
and went to a pub to read a book.
Only this time, I was in the book.
The bar was full so I stood in the corner
and ordered a dark beer.
The noise from the many conversations
faded, as they always do when I read,
but when I touched the book it felt electric.
“Here I am,” I thought. “About to read my own story.”
But I couldn’t do it. I opened the book to page 62.
Hell, I even took a picture.
But I couldn’t read my short story.
I couldn’t even get beyond the second line.
I’m not sure why. I don’t know what happened.
I’ll most likely read all the others and never read mine.
The creation of unity lives not with idle minds but with the empaths crossing oceans- And while laws govern lines and lines and lines thoughts circle the world without attachment carrying the keys to peace
I’m looking at a picture of us I didn’t like it at the time There was something too real- I felt ugly about it But now I love it You were trying to tell me something And now that you don’t want to be seen I’ve figured it out in the photo While I was off mentally having fun You were telling me you loved me and that you were sick They say a picture says a thousand words What about emotions
I like to sit and do nothing. I Stare at the walls. Or, close my eyes and stare at an image I don’t know, given to me by something I don’t understand, mixed with emotions that aren’t mine. Sometimes I open my eyes to see the same walls that have always been there. But then, I close my eyes again.