Writing

This world is frightening

Sometimes when the sun falls and i turn out the light, i flip the switch for cold air, because the contrast it has with the warmth piled up under my warm sheets makes the room less still. It prevents my thoughts from running up and down my mind as if they were preparing for the 100m dash. The contrast keeps me from thinking that one day, when the future authors and poets have been bullied to the point of extinction, who will convey our knowledge? Who will write the beauty that they have seen? How will we teach our children that the fiery explosion of orange and red that occurs every day at dusk is the most precious thing they will ever see? How do we convey that message through speech? People die, and word of mouth only lasts as long as the mouths that speak those words. When the chain ends and no one is around to tell you that our grandparents ran into a wall of bullets simply to prove that we are free, how will we know? We won't. The endless, maddening tick of that metronome finally ends and god gets a little sleep. So next time you see a kid flicking his pen across his paper, acting as if every letter is a revelation, and every word is enlightenment, maybe you should believe him.

The End

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