i tell myself no one reads these things. that i could shout my love from the rooftops or ask god for the answer to life and the same silence would follow. i trace my past in fallen leaves and my imagination is a plain on mars, swept away by the wind, the heat and the eerie desolation. one day, when i can grow wings, i'll spread them far and wide and find my way home.
in the end, it is not the journey that keeps me from leaving here, it is the fear of falling into the sea and becoming one with the chilly foam.
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