Freewrite - Untimed

Blind since five, unecessarily wise since 9 and the downturns began then- under falling autumn leaves stuck between the lines of wide ruled paper. Scribbled and massacred with clicks and ticks of what could have been literature but was not. I made the mistake of taking a path that diverges into the same path over and over again- I made the bigger mistake of attempting to convince myself that I was getting somewhere and that the stones and trees were different every time I passed them and of course they weren't. They were the same. She rounded up the stray ropes and placed them against one another, pencils in the grass writing meadows in the distance. Rope. Entangled with itself to made a larger entanglement. Heavy and hot in the palms of both hands. Derailing a train takes a quarter but that's only rumor, he says, they've done it before plenty of times. If you close your eyes you can't tell the difference between pennies and dimes, they're as smooth as lies crawling in between your pointer and index fingers. I look down. Watching the ground pass underneath me as I stand still with my legs walking and I head nowhere but it seems as though the world is passing, slowly, advancing towards something behind me. I play an invisible violin with my wrists at the dinner table, unable to talk and look up out of bashfulness, blushing at his saying that I look cute tonight. I'm nervous, I can tell because my hair cannot stay behind my ear, or so that's at least what my gestures suggest. The tables around us are celebrating anniversaries and we're only celebrating the beauty of just being with one another currently. I know better than to promise myself more than what I'm aware of knowing. I know I don't know anything- metacognition in 178 degrees, the other 2 is only faith. 180 is what I gave up a few weeks ago when I stoppped giving a damn about what I did and didn't know and how to fix it towards one end of the spectrum to the other. I like to think I'm sleeping on Tim Burton backdrops, a curling darkness, curtling grayness, writhing blankness in the foreground of chances and the rest is up to what I end up dreaming. Protagonists of tragedies and possibly lost extremities. Today was empty and I'm tired.