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Monday, December 28, 2009

Washed Up on the Shore

Standing at the edge of this desolate beach I throw messages in bottles out into the reaching waters.  There’s little to no chance they’ll be found.  There’s even a high probability that they’ll be outright ignored.  And still I continue with this futile act because I have nothing but my words.

As always.

For a brief moment I believed.  It was a shining moment when I looked up and thought I saw a beacon light in the distance, a ray of hope - salvation.  Instead, it was merely the smear of tears in my eyes turning the lonely moonlight into something more, or perhaps something less. 

So I sit on my lonely beach and hate myself for hoping and for believing.  I hate myself for wishing and wanting.  I hate myself for thinking there was ever a chance - even a slim one - of finding the peace and comfort of the quiet between heartbeats.  No, it was better before I saw the mirage and had reason to hope.  Now I have the dark reality to face and the truth that everything beautiful was only an illusion and never existed.  I have the truth that I was always alone and always will be, per my own thorny being.  So I hate myself for that, too.  How can a thistle be any more than a thistle?  No matter how she dreams of being a rose, she is what she is.

I never want to dream again.

And still I write messages and send them into the sea.

Posted by Liberty on 12/28 at 12:06 PM
Posted under: See-ThroughWriting Prompt31 Days

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