The mundane, separating sheets of paper, tasks given and completed. A friendly conversation, easy, formulaic, solvable.
This testing room, blank, dull, like the mind after a rampage of frustrated actions.
Forever there will be the knowledge of a better time. Perfect memories, flawless through the lens of distance and, well, sheer nostalgia.
She cuts. She cuts, she cuts, she cuts, she cuts, she cuts.
I speak. Words?
If we speak truth into a bucket of lies there will be war. Just wait. A mind of lies hates its enemies and swarms them to slaughter them in sheer numbers. In the folds of self-comfort they will hide, depreciating whatever comes into their trap, and pounce on light like it's tangible.
There is a warrior who tells me to fight he says things like "I am with you." And I wish the happy, under years of darkness, would resist. Not to squirm as if already taken, but rise rise to the place that it is, fulfill its creational intention, become a conquering entity ingenious love in screaming persistency to the point of revolution-- he is telling me to fight.
And I will. with loyalty piercing indifference, lashes deepening conversation, and love gifts in knowledge of companionship.
I will fight. with my counterculture weapon. and while that horrible abundance of falsity lingers, it is not bottomless... like the best daddy he tells me I am free to ask for anything ponies and dolls and strength in numbers so I beg I beg until I cannot breathe and she moves. I am reminded of the home she will forever have in my heart. Stirring whispers truth in words written long ago, trust glides into the place where anxiety was, and the air to my lungs becomes hope.