ago

Was un-ordinary.  Had a bit and everything.  Was un-bitten.  Unusual.  Unbroken.  Looked up and found nothing but there was something so I reached my hand and was broken by the unnerving of a cold earthly stare that made me think that my un-ordinary cautions left me with a scar I haven’t felt nor touched  Was untouched.  Unminding.  But it was cold and raining so I had to run and seek my solace but the shed was not until five miles ahead.  I didn’t feel weak but I was weak because I never knew how strong I was.  Was.

Lifetime.  Moments ago, I consumed the breathing of an undaunted dark space that found my home and sweaty and scared that I could get lost in a puzzle of unending deadends that amazed my itching glucose then there was the light that blinded me but still I walked and ran and bled so I had to speak in tongues and couldn’t understand.  But I did understand because everything fathomed from the visions of my perennial wonderings and wanderings that never ever made me tired.  Then silence.  Out of the noisy blossoming of the fact that I was never a flower that made its scent noticed.  Still unnoticed after all.

A second.  There was an un-urge to refuse what was coincidentallly laughing behind me and when I had to turn my back, I felt the fangs that bit me and the venom of the longing that was never there but I had to get stuck and be blissful though no one ever empathized and knew about it.

Waiting is the cure, an enigmatic medicine for all sorts of invisible blisters and until is not a word that cannot swallow forever.  Your feet swell, your eyes lose their moisture but waiting is temptation waiting to be un-addicted.  There is so much about counting the hours because you love to be wasted and tired and un-knowing what  could be and will never be but waiting is not absolute.  The tick of seconds are spent on unwavering nuisance to absorb the unconscious desire to look at the clock and sit and undo nothing and then waiting is a sweet vengeance of a poetic justice that is unpoetic and bitter and uncinematic.  Yet we are drawn to its semiotic returns only to be happy about being unwanted, lost and not knowing what and who we are waiting for.  For.

Then there’s always a then.  Time to run in circles.  Again.  Again is a trauma.  A cause of paranoia, of lunacy of a loop that ends here and there and nothing else in between because ends are painstakingly selfless.  Because I was un-ordinary.  Had a bit and everything.  Was un-bitten.  Unusual.  Unbroken.  Looked up and found nothing but there was something so I reached my hand and was broken by the unnerving of a cold earthly stare that made me think that my un-ordinary cautions left me with a scar I haven’t felt nor touched  Was untouched.  Unminding.  But it was cold and raining so I had to run and seek my solace but the shed was not until five miles ahead.  I didn’t feel weak but I was weak because I never knew how strong I was.  Was.

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