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I stare into the nothing of emptiness. The space above the tall grass of the field next to our house. It’s a small house but we call it home. I can hear my white cat somewhere in the house as I dream longingly of a life vastly different from my own.

I touch myself because it feels good. I rub myself against things to feel better. A temporary pleasure is a temporary escape from my life.

I know I’m different but I don’t show what’s going on inside. A mess of emotions that I have no names for and desires I am unable to express.

I walk outside to the place towards the back of the house where I gather leaves to turn into soil. I water and rotate the leaves until they are no longer leaves. I never imagine becoming a farmer though I guess I could if I wanted to but I never think of farming.

I imagine being a famous actor. I write but I don’t imagine being more than a great writer.

Someday I won’t live here anymore and someday there will be a field where once was a house I called home.

Categories: writing

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