With adolescent playground partners leading the political front lines, while putrid theatrics outline the climax of existence,
With forgotten females disintegrating privacy to feast on a package of hydrogenated noodles for two,
Where a man’s life is presented an F for foreign policy, and…
by Yosef Johnson,
I am back after some terrible writers block.
So I started a short story that mentally is quickly becoming a possible novel. Here is a selection from it. If this turns about to be a short story then it will be the only post I post regarding it until it’s finished. However if this goes further I will update often with excerpts.
This isn’t the start of the piece either.
An Unfinished Song.
Same Washer.
It’s quite difficult to hear with the crashing waves and rigid wind.
Alone at the end of the pier, waiting, wandering, wading,
Within my own thoughts.
It’s so far back, the fog doesn’t help either.
Trying so hard to remember the “one time”, that “feeling”
Surprisingly the lack of recollection brings a solemn blanket across my inner.
I sit with withered legs and rattled confidence.
The boards underneath me emulate my position.
A creek, a crack, and a splinter to compliment.
Sitting, my mind slowing coalescing with the fog.
Reflections, emotions, sensations, a sense of “being” dissipate into the haze,
It’s all right though, everything is nothing.
Gazing into the brittle waves, feeling that slow pulse inside…
I know it’s time.
Everything is gone and nothing is anything.
So peaceful.
Yosef Johnson
Black Hole.
Let it age.
