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“Love is the slowest form of suicide.”

Some days that even feels like it may be true.

But no. The slowest form of suicide is true loneliness.

I find myself most days on the sidewalk curb, watching the traffic go by and feeling time slowly grind to a halt. The Indian summer breeze wraps me like a lover’s embrace, and I lean against the cinderblock school wall wondering if this is how I will spend the rest of my days.¬†Sometimes it feels like I’m standing at the edge, waiting for the same breeze that pretends to love me so tenderly to brush me over the edge.

It’s difficult, to try to find the words to express feelings that truly have no name, without sounding like a broken recording. I realize mine is obviously scratched in several hundred places, skipping tracks, and playing the same sad, inane carnival song over again. My photographs scream nostalgia, the summer days are winding down to a bitter winter, and all I want to do is cling to them like an old doll and not let them slip away.

All I want is change.

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