porch swings, ceiling fans, barefeet on creaky old hardwood floors. points of interest in some idealized life. small, tangible representations of simplisity and whimsy. we build our dreams whichever ways we can. we find ways to materialize what we cannot articulate, what we believe we cannot create on our own. slow moves when we're traveling at the speed of sight. every moment seeming more and more brief and fleeting. it's hard to keep hold of anything other than imagined idols.
and in such haste and speed, we grow so tired. tired of trying to keep up. tired of trying to keep it together. tired of trying to keep hold. we grow so tired; as we stare off into space, into the momentum of ceiling fans, into the traffic down below. we grow so tired; we get lost in the sounds of everything around us. until anything that isn't a scream goes completely unheard. heralds no reaction, no remorse, nothing really at all. as though it never even happened. as though it just crept out the door in the middle of the night. leaving you wide eyed and wondering what it was you lost. what came through you like bullet holes. because you can't see beyond the ceiling fans and you can't hear beyond the traffic below.
then the porch swings look a little emptier, the ceiling fans speed up so quickly, the hardwood glows and goes without sound. and we no longer know how to envision some idealized life. we get lost in the shuffle. as though we've just crept out the door in the middle of the night. never said, never seen. a quick and quiet reprieve from that maddening speed.
we look up with tired eyes.
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