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INFJ | Potterhead | Writer | Daydreamer

"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."
-Ernest Hemingway

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December 6, 2017


People asked him why he looked so odd.  His eyes were blurred as though by a vast length of water, their whites barely white, the irises dashed across the pupil like they were seared into his lids.  His mouth was a small hole.  His ears were boxes, amplifiers that received sound and sound alone.
    Every time they asked, he got angrier.  He shouted at them.  He was a lone child, standing far apart from anyone else, a fallen, disfigured walnut under the tree that was everything.  He yelled terrible things at them, in such projection they shrank back, tumbling across the leaf-strewn grass to the cluster of familiar vegetation.  They were cowards that way.
    He was not a coward.  He stood by, his neck straight and his ears perked and his face fierce like a lion.  As a lion his features looked different, proud, not human.  As a lion he could be anything, until he returned back to humanity, back to its cruelness and its misunderstood variety.  Until he shrank back, a walnut (a seed) ungrown, unflourished, fallen and helpless and scattered everywhere like bits and pieces torn by the wind.


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  • December 6, 2017 - 9:26pm (Now Viewing)

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