Ordinary.

In a world of verse, where lonely people are cycling past me, I am alone.

I am alone with my prose. I am alone with my repetitive thoughts and trite words. I have nothing new to say. I have nothing that you haven’t already heard before a hundred times. In my black room, I have circular narratives that bring me where I started. There isn’t depression or glee, there isn’t anything extreme. I am alone with my mediocre, lack-lustre plots.

In the nights, I fall asleep earlier than everyone else. I think of all the things around me. I think of all the people. I think of their stories. I think of their paint speckled hands and their whip like wit. I think of who they are, thin and long haired or small and poetic. I think of all this. Then I don’t think anymore.

In the whole place, with its wide eyed wonder and fickle drama, I am standing here by myself, watching the magic fold and unfold. And fold and unfold.