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Literature Text
Loneliness is a creeping death
A silhouette appearing as a storm
One that encompasses us
Cruelly distorting our vision
Some shackles bind us subtlety
It's the shadow walking behind us
Right out in the open
To be seen but unperceived
Companionship is one treatment
Please don't paint people as a cure
Some are tortured by silence
Not being able to express
To be lonely is to swallow words
Withholding the most important things
Keeping one's self locked up
Being unable to simply be
Loneliness is a gag for the soul
Silence so frigid that it's maddening
A winter to snuff out one's spirit
Storm clouds blocking out the sun
A silhouette appearing as a storm
One that encompasses us
Cruelly distorting our vision
Some shackles bind us subtlety
It's the shadow walking behind us
Right out in the open
To be seen but unperceived
Companionship is one treatment
Please don't paint people as a cure
Some are tortured by silence
Not being able to express
To be lonely is to swallow words
Withholding the most important things
Keeping one's self locked up
Being unable to simply be
Loneliness is a gag for the soul
Silence so frigid that it's maddening
A winter to snuff out one's spirit
Storm clouds blocking out the sun
Literature
Words, Words, Words
It was the end of the last normal day for Jonathan Fields. He had finished work at five and had come back to his modest apartment without a sense of accomplishment. Having fixed himself a hearty dinner of microwave soup and wrinkly carrot sticks, he sat down on his grey couch and turned on the TV. There wasn't anything on that really interested him, but he got some sparse enjoyment from complaining about the lack of content. He had almost reached that blessed hypnotic state the television could sometimes induce, when his cell phone bleeped and buzzed a tired tune that he had long since ceased to hea
Literature
Excuses
He sleeps like a child without a voice. (And she listens like a child who cannot hear.)
He dreams like a stranger on a train. (And she watches like another fixated by his thoughts.)
He sighs like the first whisper of a rainstorm. (And she understands like the eve of the storm.)
He breathes like tomorrow is his last day. (And she reminds him that he will live longer than ever.)
He sings like a bird in the winds of the forest. (And she understands the sweetness of every note.)
He cries like the downpour in the desert. (And she climbs to the ends of the earth to make him smile.)
He loses his way like a deer out of the forest. (And she gui
Literature
To Dream of Falling
I dream of falling.
It's not a dream common to angels. After all, we have a pair of wings--or two or three--and we can use them. We float upon the air, dance among the stars, shape the clouds with our breath, and so on. All that lovely wordplay to describe an indescribable. A joy, a graceless power. Flight.
Humans dream of it often, I am told. It makes sense. They have no wings save for what they create with their hands. Airplanes, hang gliders, helicopters. Kites. They are obsessed with the sky, more so than the angels themselves, many of whom will fly three thousand miles rather than walk across the street.
And yet I dream of f
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Loneliness is a bitch, and a subject I could write essays on and have a great many conversations about.
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