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The Field Where Love Bloomed (Home)I open my eyes to this stark nothingness. The grey sky a mirror of my heart. This place once the holder of my hopes, my dreams, is now a foreboding prison cell for which I carelessly loose myself. The days have blurred into endless hours, countless days for which my sanity hangs by the sheer will of my instincts. I am without thought in this place. I am without the love which blooms so openly in the fields of people of my home. I sit in restless, hopeless, oblivion where nothing more than the grey sky provides my clear sight unto this unfamiliar hell.
I have given all I could to bring myself from the depths of memory. Tossing myself into the sea of forget. I have run for no reason. I had not thought this through. Why do I remain here sentenced? I never see this microcosm of the world within these cold forests of humanity. I do not see what good, though little there is, remains in this shadowed place. I remain, where my hope once sprang forth like molten rock of the Earth. I remain with
The One Who Longs for LifeHave you ever had a moment where your world doesn’t seem real? Like it’s the set of a movie or television show? It’s a moment where you feel like a character acting out your life as though you are being watched, filmed or being directed. Many have told me that this is a side effect of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or depression. I don’t have depression, but PTSD, yeah that I do have. But it’s not for the reasons which other people have it. I’m not a soldier. I am not some sad adult who is considered a “victim” of abuses unimaginable in childhood. No, I have PTSD for reasons that many would consider insane. I have gone through the rigorous tests to prove I am not Schizophrenic or having hallucinations. I am of sound mind. I have PTSD only. The therapists have all come to the conclusion that what I experienced was real. Though they cannot entirely flesh out what was seen, all they can say is that: “You’re not the only one to su
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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