allienation

There's a gapping hole in my chest suddenly, like a sink hole that swallows up everything and leaves nothing behind; gone. Just gone, everything in a blink. Wilted rose petals, evening gloves, the old shoe without the match, marbles, buttons, hats, photographs, all of it is engulfed, crushed into oblivion by that dark, gawking maw that inhaled itself into being.

They say to write until you don't hurt anymore. It seems as if there is the impression that words are like some kind of flowing stream that cleanses you as your hands move and the words appear. The words are feelings, emotions, thoughts, troubles, cares in the guise of various symbols and shapes. Somehow through this motion a release is experienced, a kind of release that many people seem to spend their lives trying to capture and identify, to feel, to preserve. I'm not sure how or why, as I tend to never be quite sure, but these senses of dread, sadness, anxiety, have mounted up behind my porcelain facade and pressed so hard that the smooth