(In which the recluse speaks.)
***
I find refuge in the written word
I, the epitome of loneliness
the person no one wants to be
the face you don’t want to see
in the mirror
before you.
I find respite in the written words
I, the escapist who believes
in ever after
and waits patiently
for the one destined.
Yes, I believe in destiny.
I find comfort in the written word
and love – yes, love –
in fictional lives,
of fictional people,
in fictional situations.
I, whose hands sought
darkness and felt air
walked
and still found
nil.
I find life in the written word
of others and mine.
So in case I, the existence unnoticed,
woke up one day invisible
their words and mine remain.
I find respite in the written word
I, the epitome of loneliness
the person no one wants to be
the face you don’t want to see
in the mirror
before you.
I find respite in the written words
I, the escapist who believes
in ever after
and waits patiently
for the one destined.
Yes, I believe in destiny.
I find comfort in the written word
and love – yes, love –
in fictional lives,
of fictional people,
in fictional situations.
I, whose hands sought
darkness and felt air
walked
and still found
nil.
I find life in the written word
of others and mine.
So in case I, the existence unnoticed,
woke up one day invisible
their words and mine remain.
I find respite in the written word
when almost everything in the world spites me.
I, the person next to you,
your neighbor, your friend,
your unrequited lover
whose life is about
hope
and the death of it,
expectation,
frustration,
a ray of light,
total darkness.
Dreams.
Failures.
And the cycle goes on
and on
and never
ends.
I, the person next to you,
your neighbor, your friend,
your unrequited lover
whose life is about
hope
and the death of it,
expectation,
frustration,
a ray of light,
total darkness.
Dreams.
Failures.
And the cycle goes on
and on
and never
ends.
Photo sources:The Reader
