A conversation | for Jh

Since we aren’t having much of a conversation
I shall talk to myself.
It’s pretty much all that’s left to do nowadays anyway.
(Short of talking to extraterrestrial beings)

I, write
With my pen on paper
Pen on brain
Pen in the air
Pen drawing shapes that merge,
Fuzzily into faces and animals,
And which I rub out with my fingers
Forming people, houses, ideas.
They never quite get there, these forms.
They never quite.
They live and breathe like those broken films
Full of fantastic potential and a rose-tinted view of life
But not having so much life left to breathe.
It’s been awhile now, how my words fade into pictures.
Perhaps I should paint instead of write, write instead of talk.

There’s only a sliver that separates the two sides.
It’s like an elevator : one moment you are at ground level; one moment you are underground; at the 70th floor; in the basement.
I stand there unmoving and the doors open,
There are so many people outside. Close.
Open. There is nobody. Close.
Open. It is so crowded. Close.
Open. It fills up. Close.
Open. It empties. Close.
Open. There is nobody. Close.
Open. There is nobody. Close.
Open. There is nobody. Close.
Open. There is nobody.

A conversation | for Jh

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