I mentally travel in circles trying to find an emotion that best describes my solitude. It makes me laugh when I hear that word. Solitude. Maybe that isn't the correct word I'm looking for.
The sun beats down heavily on the city as we try and prepare ourselves emotionally, fashionably and mentally for the cold months that lay ahead. We are ants working hard, thinking of our future as well as trying to secure our present.
My mind drifts off for a moment in silence, subconscious spinning while the conscience level remains suspended in time and space.
Then it hits me: this is not solitude, this is isolation. I am isolated from my passions. I have washed up all the anticipation for my future and turned my present into a desert of uncontrollable ennui for life's mysterious adventure.
Why has my heart given up? Why has my heart dried completely while my eyes descry a message from the pain that propels my heart to continuously beat?
Anticipated tears in welcome of autumn.






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