Fog is fascinating, you know, watching cars roll by on the highway as people do in their lives. Some with their lights on, I'd like to think their eyes are open, wanting to see and be seen. Then some with their lights on far too bright, eyes bloodshot from desperately trying to foresee their future, crusty from grasping at something intangible. Then some who never bothered to turn their lights on, never thought to see or be seen, simply be. Sometimes I pity them. Once I saw a girl on the side of the road, pretty thing nearly in tears she was so afraid. She seemed to hang there, suspended in that simple and terrible place, unable to move forward or back, held by nothing but her fear. I found that I pitied her the most. But perhaps that's the way it has to be. If the road was congested with vehicles, you could trust that Someone ahead knew what was there. No, no, it's far more fun to travel alone on the road, to discover it with your own eyes, to understand it in your own voice. After all, we're all alone.
(21 November 2014, Prose)
YOU ARE READING
An Aged, Bitter Collection of Poetry, Prose, & Papers
PoésieThere once was a sad girl, not that long ago, in a kingdom not so far away. Perhaps a glance into her somber scribbles might help you on your quest to scribble for yourself.
