Hate to let my mind roam over the areas of my thoughts that are sprinkled with landmines of hurt like a decorated zero-donut of demise, so I turn it off. Click. The switch is heavy to flip upward, spring-loaded downward. I crush those heavy draping recollections so as to not stumble under the weight of a bruising, a battering, a beating that is my past...that is still me when I'm out of focus...that is my upturned hands presented to the sky in abject confusion of love.
Hold onto distance as a cloak to withdraw into so as to avoid plugging into lives of surrounding "others" and dance behind the puppet wall, the cut-out mask, the costumed fool, the shadowy pantomime. Ride that elevator up to work and hop that train and pull the covers up over blackened regret and painful remorse and after the prayer by the lonely bedside, the words whispered across the darkened room that cry for help paint the backdrops of my dreams.
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