to the stars on the wings of a pig
My favorite type of writing is to sit an observe the people around me.
This is man, sitting at a coffee shop.
There's a weight to everything he does. Like he's walking up hill. Like there's something he's hiding. Something that if you could just understand where he's come from, it might all make sense.
He sits there. Staring blankly at his computer screen.
He's been here before. Just trying to get off the starting blocks. Just trying to build momentum.
How do people just have the momentum to continue on.
He's the personification of potential energy. A ball at the top of steps. Waiting.
Hoping that someone will come along and give him a nudge.
But no one does. He looks around. Trying to make eye contact with someone. Trying to find some sort of connection with someone. But no one matches his gaze.
He takes off his glasses. Rubs his eyes. Takes a deep breath.
Begins to type.
This is quickly followed by the repetitive motion of tapping the delete key.
How do people get started?
How do people move on?
How do people keep going?
He used to feel like it was all building to something.
Today, he is a lumbering soul.
He's given up on flight.
The stars? A memory from years ago that brings with it a twitch of pain inside of himself.
How do people start over again?
He closes his computer. Pulls out his phone.
Clicks on an app that is out of habit rather than intention.
And he scrolls.
Maybe it just wasn't meant to be. Maybe this was all a pipe dream.
But he could have sworn he created something special before.
There was something there. Wasn't there?
Did he waste it? Did he miss it?
What was it? Was it where he was? Was it who he was with?
Why can't he get back to that place?
These questions fly through his mind as he continues to scroll.
A lumbering soul.
A weight hidden within his chest.
A sadness that looks more like aloofness.
A ball waiting to be pushed.
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