in the wake of the fall 

by The Dreamer

feet digging into the sheets, legs intertwined with blankets, faint playlists muffled under pillows and the dim light of the screen seeping through. empty beds beside and a red night sky with a peek of a toenail moon between window grills. a mother’s padded footsteps across echoed hallways, the tug of chains and the chime of freshly wounded up grandfather clocks counting down to midnight. fantasy and reality intersecting in the fibre of thoughts, half awake thoughts drifting through synapses. the lonely whir of a solo fan, the lonely scratch of tired wheels against asphalt, the amplification of lonely thoughts in a lonely room with doors closed. mourning over miscarriaged words and aborted dreams, air heavy with pregnant struggles with late night worries and inadequacies. there’s something cathartic about re-enacting favourite scenes from fictional sources, a lapse and release from the grips of whatever bounds me to me, and me to him, and me to you, and me to the world. 

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grey clouds draped over a washed out sky, casting muted sepia-toned shadows over the furniture. old crackly tunes spinning in the axis of new speakers. sprawled over couch pillows with work clothes still on, a day’s reflections churning in an exhausted mind. the world is as quiet as it is loud, homes being returned to, and a sun knocking off from work without anyone noticing. nostalgia is emotional duct tape, i once saw this somewhere, but i relish in it with appetite, like a young girl with stockholm syndrome.

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