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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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![]() there is an old man who drags his lute up to the mountain, sits under the temple roof and plays his heart out: strained chords, from the cataclysmic meeting of his fingers and string as we walk past and wince. his lashes settle, basking
in nostalgic memories of young love, real love, before nineteen sixty - six. locked in a dark room for months on end because he, counter- revolutionary; threat to society, wanted to teach children to read, and now that dark room, pain-stained, convulsing and empty, and silent, settles deep inside of him -- a nauseating chasm of lost potential and too much time spent alone. for in there, he dreamt of his children dying, again and again, wishing the world would stop expanding; implode, so at least his wife, love of his life, could stay, a bit closer to him. in the blazing nights he saw her translucent and wonderful in his star-bathed, bleary gaze, smiled contentedly, little ghost, slept and stayed like that for days. in the end, it is man’s own self delusion that drives him to keep living -- delusions of grandeur, and the future, and we’re going to be so happy! we’re going to be so free! the real world’s a fright, but you’re still here next to me, sweat-sticky and alive. he may have clung on to the edge of this existence, a basement room, mould scratched world noiseless and death-waiting, for one entire year but look at him now! on top of the world and singing his heart out, voice tremulous in the wind and warmth suffusing rosy wrinkled cheeks — a god. Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
September 2023
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