As young guns keep posting photographs of your hometown, of your old college, of all the places that you once inhabited-browsed-grazed, of all the faces you'll never meet again, of all insidious crooked corners that you thought only you could discover- you do not see the chauvinistic dumb-fuckery that you so want to associate with it, you see postcards, postcards from the past, and your heart trembles a little, sometimes a little less.
You so want to say out loud, yes, I was there too. It was beautiful. You want to like it. Comment on it. Rewrite those thoughts, feelings. Banter.
'Hear me little darling. I want to be heard.'
But then you refrain, your ego takes you to that place where you consider yourself brazen and safe, safe from those years of nostalgia and longing-surrounded by the invisible walls of solitude, carrying on your shoulders the weight of time- like a stalwart from the past, like those soldiers who went home after war.
Your time was over long ago. You're invisible now.
You so want to say out loud, yes, I was there too. It was beautiful. You want to like it. Comment on it. Rewrite those thoughts, feelings. Banter.
'Hear me little darling. I want to be heard.'
But then you refrain, your ego takes you to that place where you consider yourself brazen and safe, safe from those years of nostalgia and longing-surrounded by the invisible walls of solitude, carrying on your shoulders the weight of time- like a stalwart from the past, like those soldiers who went home after war.
Your time was over long ago. You're invisible now.
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