I'm a decaying piece of organic matter, but you can call me Claire. I'm a bookworm, isolated in the depths of non-reality, I live in splotches of color and orangey sunsets-- sometimes even in the absence of color at all, like a boring newspaper spread on Sunday mornings. I breath and long, intricate sentences come out, weaved neatly of beautiful adjectives and solemn metaphors. I whisper activism in my deepest sleep. I am alive in the most ways possible, I have an eye for beauty and an ear for music. I sit alone sometimes and ask the world why I'm here, and I still haven't got much of an answer. I will never give up on asking. I will never stop thinking, and I like that about myself.
A feeling
You can call it what you want.
A notion. A shadow of an idea, a hunch
An intuition
The small whisper of persuasion you can’t be sure if you actually heard.
I can be sure this impression isn’t physical
though it seems always to be lurking in the corner of my vision
its the feeling you get when your leg falls asleep
when your fingertips go numb
when you can swear someone just brushed your neck from behind
this is somewhere between a hallucination and reality
Maybe it’s you that touched my neck,
you calling my name
Maybe my fingers are numb because you’re holding my hand too tight..
Meh- random 5th period thoughts. Not great.
Just amorous.
