I can feel the pain of those whose paintbrushes seem to work no more. Artists who sit in front of an empty canvass, dissecting themselves mentally for the answer: a masterpiece. I sit with them in spirit, my tortured soul a mere witness to their depiction of loss: a goodbye to the things that welcomed them into their craft.

  At night, I close my eyes and walk into the uncertainty of the everglades, my eyes focused on the ornate silhouettes before me. I want to sit, but this place is not safe. The water is rife with danger and the trees are rife with hate. Frightened, I cross my fingers and try my very best to step into something concrete; praying with bated breath that I don’t die.

   Just when things are about to fall apart, my eyes open: burning with the heat of the morning sun. My soul wakes up from a momentary slumber, refreshed and rejuvenated by some sort of a transcendental interaction with my unconscious past. I used to be someone before, and now.. I can’t wait to be her again.





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