bland

a fictional story

most unmercifully do I tell you that this post will not be even on the brink of poetic. today i tell you a story in a much more crude and upfront, if not descriptive, way.  I'll tell it it you. I begin with a battered, tormented apartment suite on the twenty-seventh floor, on top of a well reputed consignment shop. there's many a described  stories in the tattered walls, the holes in a child's door, the stench from the bathroom mildew. the place cries out "I'm scared. leave me. I don't care anymore." and all you think of is the pain surrounding you, its infectious. i'll also tell you of the demons of this child's life. they are those who see only what they don't have to feel, they see the sky, but they do not feel. they see the moon, but they do not feel. they see the silhouette of a child, and shrinking into a blank world, they do not feel. the child is left to feel, and twice the burden is laid down upon her mind. she feels for those who will take the risk, but no demon stirs in its path. maybe i'll tell you a little more about this child tomorrow. maybe rather the happy aspects of her life, or maybe i'll dwell on the negative a day longer, as life seems to enjoy the same.