A Formerly Paper Post, Once Lost, Now Found.

I want to run away, to Australia;

to Quebec;

to a small bookshop nestled in the Left Bank.

Sleep huddled in a corner, surrounded by dusty words.
Walk along cobbled streets while the dusk mingles with smoke.
Or run in the opposite direction.

Away from everything I have built my life upon. Hung my mind around. Like so many sticks, draped over with a many-holed canvas.
To somewhere heavily populated, where no one knows my name, or sees my face.
Or somewhere remote.

Run to Nowhere.
Where the words I know, have never existed.

To sit with people, while they make sounds, and I make sounds and that's all they are.

Sounds.

And then maybe I could do it.

Say "Hey! Listen, I'm not okay"

or

"So many mornings I wake, and lie here. And there's nothing to get up for, so I turn and will myself back to sleep. Until noon. Until dark. Until the next morning rolls around. But, I never make it that far. So I sit alone in the night."

"Some days I convince myself that life is good. But other days I know that society is flawed. And people are flawed and I am flawed. And we're all going to let each other down in the end"

And they would maybe laugh and nod, and talk to each other.
"Her hair is a strange colour"
"Listen to the sounds she makes.."
"Poor child, she is all wrong. But it cannot be helped"
And their words would tumble around me, violently. Like water through a storm drain, like falling wooden blocks.
Shattering noise, the trees in the forest.
And then, they would teach me to make sago.

I like the Left Bank idea best. If Mouse will come with me?
Something to prevent me from falling into a life of paper dreams, and words that stop at my throat. Hands that do not move, except to brush away the flies.