The last thread hanging: I can write no more. An untimely demise of my words and me.
Closure of Impersonal Sorts.
He scrolled through his contact list seeking company and conversation. A to Z rolled in vain.
“What am I doing? I cannot accommodate trust in words anymore. What am I going to say? The blues of making formal small talk will sink me in my own self.”
Time and time again he reminded himself of the once sworn (self-proclaimed, self-afflicted) solitude of a kind that rendered him incapable of personal discourse. Now it came crawling back, claws undone. Occasional visits from the past entailed nostalgia and a degree of melancholy.
“I am feeling terribly lonely tonight.” He whispered to himself in hopes of getting a misleading retort from the muscle that now ached.
The rendezvous with a few chosen but somewhat close friends had no effect whatsoever on the torment the morning wake was. He had dreamt it all over again; the barred walls of his school and all his associates around him. But this time he was seeking. Running corridor to corridor, meeting flashing faces of people he once knew.
I am running again. Away from some. To some. The grounds look exactly the same as they were when I left the school. It is a mob. I have been instructed to keep the kids away from trouble. I am running again, seeking assistance of any kind. I see old classmates, happy, ignorant of the prevalent situation. I am all sweats. It bothers me no more. I see new friends. I do not approach them. I am keen. I am still seeking. I am hurting. I am alone. I drop by in an old class. I well up. I had come so far I never remembered what I was here for.