Heaven Below a Scorched Plane

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Chapter 20

When left to one’s own devices, often we

When left to one’s own devices, one would assume that

When left to one’s own devices, he finds that life

The biggest drawback to this whole thing is Internet. How am I supposed to know how to follow up when left to one’s own devices? What’s the correct grammar? I don’t know. Am I supposed to care? Why do I feel so attached to proper grammar, when ultimately nothing about these notes is communicative in nature? What english teacher is looming over me, such that my hand won’t bring the pen down further?

Whatever. It doesn’t bother me that much. I feel that maybe the written word flows farther than my thoughts do, like the ink itself amplifies who I am, creates a version of me who is distinctly separate from me, yet is more of myself than even me.

God. It’s all drivel isn’t it? I could never write, could never take the actual effort to finish anything. It’d always start good, but all the plot stuff would get in the way and details would be missing and I’d keep wanting to just rewrite the whole thing and it’d get so frustrating I’d put it off for a while and come back to it when I was thinking straight.

Well, I said I’d come back to them. Thinking never exactly straightened, I guess. Or I’m lazy and can’t commit. Not that it matters, I’m not exactly a starving artist here. Starving for art, but that’s better than nothing.

Well, they’re not exactly mutually exclusive, art and nothing.


You have the open field of green, with two edges

taken up by swings and slides and mulch.

More ways to run away there, weaving through it all,

but you risk being ignored entirely.


You hang back, it gives you time to get away,

you’re not fast enough to get rid of it,

better to not have it in the first place.

Ultimately a flawed plan.


They catch up

because of course they do,

The touch comes hard, vicious,

and the ground rises to meet you.


It takes a while to process

the pain, the dirt.

It feels impossible,

but you have all the time in the world.


You’re not bleeding, it cuts too

Deep, but kids don’t see that far,

so you’re fine. See? No one’s coming closer,

too busy running away.

I want to run. Like, not run on a treadmill, really run. Run to somewhere, anywhere. I want to feel like my feet are propelling me across real distance. I want to feel the same way I do when I'm somewhere normal, and no one's around, but my destination's a ways away, and I just run, for no other reason but for my own satisfaction. I don't want function, I don't want explanations, I want something both incorporeal and physical, something beyond rationale and logic.

I feel so sluggish all of a sudden. My insides boil, but my mind feels like a pool of sludge, sloshing around slowly. I feel inert, not of my own accord, but rather by the forces surrounding me. I'm being constricted, this destructive force inside me is tied down by the limitations of myself, by this tightening. It's all here, all of life and the universe, all tearing and screaming, but they refuse to leave despite everything. Why don't they go away if this mortal coil doesn't suit them, or dissipate if they insist on staying?

Tears. I'm crying. My body has acted before even I realized it. Tears blind us, blur our vision, but biologically speaking they clean our eyes of contaminants. A contradiction, but to what end? Tears are meant for the future, when we're willing to look forward, not while we wallow in our own pitiful existence. But what purpose do they serve now, when there is no where to go, no hill on the next horizon to peer to?

The body is nostalgic.

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