The Distant River

The Distant River

“As the cosmos explodes and my new world was born, Luigi was life and she always made it fun.”

He opens the doors and walks in, the air humid as ever. His body is no stranger to this, he places his bag down, lies on the couch and looks on into the dark abyss. His mind is warped with events of the day, they speed across the lines of his thoughts. As usual, they are a mixture of pain and loss. He sighs, he knows no one would understand his pain or why he feels weak and he’s beginning to tire for how would you appreciate light without knowing fire.
He sits up and picks up his pen. Now it’s time to find comfort in words, an irony that it’s a pen that releases him from this prison of sadness and so he writes of events as he experiences them in varying degrees. He writes stories of pain, stopping in between for the words are difficult, a flexibility with little ease. He paints images of false prophets, friends of no conviction. With his pen he puts them to pestilence and spaces filled with restrictions. The light in the room shimmers but his mind is already illuminated. His words sparkle and glitter, he writes about his hopes for God with a prayer for renaissance, a prayer for solution. A future with waves from men and even the ocean, the ink from the pen flows as easy, darkening beautifully the wads of paper, a fury on its own, a death on its own, his very own reaper. Words come more and more, a paper, glory and in this way is how I tell my story.

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