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Aug 2014
Tired.

I had been able to close my eyes for a bit and even went as far as letting the blanket of black envelop me. Strangely, it had held me like no one didn't. In short, I was alone. But this time, content with being so: I could finally enjoy the voice inside my head.

And then tomorrow, once a concept that didn't exist, existed once again. Then my chest began to hurt. Exam sadness was setting in. It was thus the time to write insincere essays and meaningless equations. All for a certificate that will say I am qualified for something. For what, I do not know. All I know that I was once able to smile...not too long ago.

I said goodbye to my blanket of black and said hello to my gentle heart attack. And afterwards I logged onto more emptiness on a screen: dreams and seens. I didn't, I don't, understand anything yet. All I know is that I am suddenly not a child anymore.
Short prose is almost the same thing as verse. Just almost.
Tawanda Mulalu
Written by
Tawanda Mulalu  Gaborone, Botswana
(Gaborone, Botswana)   
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