Stream of Consciousness

hope

I’m not sure I have a voice.

You see, there’s a slumbering trembling that takes a step into something warm and inviting, like the sun, but with training wheels.

And every time the light of day hits it, someone comes along with a sledgehammer and takes it all away.

I keep lying there, catching my breath. Before sitting back up, playing with my fingers in the sand, writing maps no one understands but me.

It’s lonely.

But I can still feel the pulse of it in me, thrumming into a hurricane of neediness, ready to explode and take everything in its path with it. Down into this desert of warmth and cool breezes and nothing that really belongs in these flat lands.

Do you remember the first time you felt the sun’s heat on your flesh? I think I must’ve had a hand over my mouth, but it wasn’t mine. I think I must’ve had some words fall out, but they came from another tongue.

So I grab my shoes and shake the dust out and, what do you know?, I’m still entirely ready to get the wind knocked out of me by hope.

Speak and be heard...

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