As I’m sitting here, at the library, in a failed attempt to study, I was sparked with some inspiration. I casually write prose, poetry, among other things. I’ve never shared my work in a public setting, so why not share it on a blog that few will ever stumble upon?
I wrote this over the summer and it’s still in rough shape. Alright, here we go:
Does he know that when he talks, the words drip from his mouth like honey into a warm, not hot, glass of chamomile tea? Relaxing and soothing as if to seal my fate in a coffin of eternal rest. But here I am, the untouched, unharmed victim of Darwinism. I am the monkey who slipped through Charles’ sights. I evolved from a splatter of paint that never learned how to dry: not quite dripping to the bottom of the wall, but perpetually damp to the touch just enough to ruin freshly washed blue jeans from a store I never had the money to shop at.