“Goodbye, little yellow bird…” My gaze couldn’t find you again if I tried. I caught a glimpse of you once, and only once, when I was being hanged.

My eyes turn outward. Always outward, seeking that which cannot be found.

I see things. Strange places I could travel to, if only…. A man picking his nails or striking a match. He sits on the running board of his car. Then there’s another place. Block upon block, stone upon stone. A quarry. I can also see a door, if I really stretch, using my peripherals.

Forever here. Forever sitting. Staring and wondering:

If art imitates life, and life imitates art…am I really alive?

Stare. Stare. Stare into nowhere, waiting to be dusted.

__

Just some random nonsense from creative writing group.

Keep your pen on the page,
Beth

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