Of Tinted Future on Taunted Past

1950, Claudius Valentine

1950, Claudius Valentine

I woke up.

I woke up with a gunshot. It's not even creative writing with Ms. Valdemor at 1:00 pm where my demons lay low, but in the most literal way possible.

I'm not about why I am wearing some dirty green but mostly troubled, man of arm's suit. Not even as to why I am bleeding and in sunken pain right now. Just nearly beffudled into the feeling of having to stop being tired.

Dead, suddenly, became just an overstatement of just resting, of just becoming the tabula rasa that I were, of just...unbecoming.

And I'm liking it. I'm liking it so much that my eyes have not ever been this heavy. The world is disappearing from the in tucked rubic's cube I usually play at the institution to how it was when Helen's gone and when no one ever wants to protect me. Slowly and slowly fading.

I got a glimpse of the people, running for their lives, a kid, trying to open her mom's eyes, a tree, shedding leaves like they are tears of agony, a gun that must have been the culprit of this suddenness, blood, more blood, and even more blood. And then, there I saw a pocket-size photo of you.

You, not even looking at the camera but smiling. The fun and silly you at the cafeteria where you dance and laugh and hum. You with your usual messy long blonde hair and that gray loose shirt you were soaked in with at the open fields when you were enjoying yourself with the summer rain.

And in that 58 seconds of conformity with the grim, I thereupon withdraw. I saw my hope and if dying is resting but losing you, then I'll be an insurgent of life just to live forever.

But I saw the pen and its ink is out.