left are the relics of a dying race —
overthrown by impatience, by faded empathy.
i offer an elegy to the last of its breed —
a lament of cultural detachment —
a lament of resistance to communion —
a dying affinity for reality.
i grieve for generations past.
i mourn of their efforts —
their endeavors undone by disregard.
t.w.
his heart yearns for hers
with every passing moment.
he longs for the day she
returns to his arms.
they talk on the phone each night,
yet that’s what breaks him most.
able to hear —
not feel.
it tears him apart,
suffocating his heart
as it did when he first left.
a constant ache —
being in love but not together.
it gives him time to think —
a daily experience he has come to loathe.
afraid of communion with his thoughts,
spurring an addiction —
an addiction to anything that will
distract him from his sadness.
t.w.
“there’s no passion here” he thinks
as he stares at the numbers on the screen.
there’s something missing —
something real —
something emotionally evoking.
“there’s no passion in this.”
t.w.
the most important thing you can do when
creating is feeling. emotion ties our creative
vision to our creative process. the best works you
will ever create are those that move your heart.
create something worth feeling.
t.w.
he stared at his phone knowing full well he was
wasting his time — looking to the screen for something
he knew it could never provide. he’s hated himself for
years; hated his slavery — slavery to a little glass box —
controlling his every move — his every thought — his
social crutch — his lifeline. beginning to imagine who
he’d be without, anxiety flares — become emotionally
attached — only wishing that emotional connection
wasn’t wasted on a screen. if only that bond could be
brought to his marriage — to the woman he claims to
love, yet continues to live in the shadow of his
addiction. crippling self-hatred turned to anger —
a pure, emotionally debilitating rage. turned
in on himself — this is the lowest he’s felt in a long
time — a long, long time.
t.w.