Utterly plotless.

Quiet and still sitting with your legs crossed and your elbow on the windowsill. The sun is dripping down, right between your bright blue eyes to your lips. The streets are framed with the fallen leaves you watched grow all spring just to wither in late october. You wonder if your dreams did just the same, built up in the heat and passion of the sunshine and freedom of summer, tucked back in to your mind come fall, unactualized, but uncomprimised.

Watching these kids learning about themselves on their way home from school. You used to walk that same way, your long blonde hair tangled in backpack half your own size, but weightless in the wake of post school day bliss. They’re learning what it’s like to be human still. They have no clue. They look up to people like you like gods and goddesses. But you have no idea what you are doing and you’re still waiting for someone to give you the answers.

The night comes too early in the fall. The scent of oranges and auburns slip through the window screen that is exposed so close to you. You’re wondering when life begins, when it really begins. When it starts to feel real. When you don’t stir memories of your experiences only to grow envious of your past self and wish with resent you’d been the there.

Your hair is tangled in the ring around your finger as you drift into deeper thought. Finding no comfort in knowing there are thousands who feel and think as you do, you shut the window, uncross your legs,  and move on with your day.

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