Prose

It was a holiday so I woke up on time
and before long I was staring at the black line
blinking in a sea of recycled text

The noise wasn’t deafening that day
and for a while the resulting delight
kept me unproductively occupied

It is never supposed to be pretty,
akin to pushing against a grind stone,
not for those of intermittent intent

Here, however, the freedom is terrifying
and the prerequisites accompanying the plunge
temptingly simple but deceptively evasive

What does one say to one
who doesn’t have the time for that
and wrongly construes their courage for this?

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