The stream at the edge.

Try screaming on a busy road, where impatience laces hearts, tying knots, taut and firm. Try breaking down in the middle of the road, and watch your tears become traces of selfish sweat, uncared for and forsaken. Drag your weary feet back to that stream, at the edge of all inhabitance, far away from everything …

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The air that I breathe.

I write these words as my story, a story that I can paint on my bruised skin, a story that thrives within the depths of my soul, a story that is a desperate attempt to derive meaning. I inhale this static substance around me as sharply I can, and I feel it burn inside me. …