Oh how I used to dream of greater worlds and unreachable voids.
I used to pretend to ignore you in the hallways to fulfill
my inexplicable, over-the-top fantasies of finally leaving this
awful, monochromatic town full of secrets, truths, and lies.
I knew better yet still told dozens and dozens of tales that I, myself,
wanted to hear. I thought if I said it enough, one day I would soon
believe myself and my what-ifs of curiosity and greater days.
Plants start as seeds though, and bloom and then one day just
stop growing, and existing, and leave without a story to tell
the world. I would rather die unbloomed than turn bitter and jaded
like the rest, but when all of your petals are left for the flames to
consume, nothing seems to comfort you anymore. Nothing is left
in the world, and all of the bells have stopped ringing and the choir
finished singing, and you are left in your own desolation with no hand to hold.
The typewriter has solely come to a pause and the tape remains needing to be unwound.