I’ve been walking past my old books. So many words, rubbish left behind… I laughed at how pathetic I sounded back then.
But then again, today’s no different. All these colourful bricks in my room, I keep questioning when they’d fade. I don’t know what I’m writing, what I’m doing. I just keep waiting for the same thing over and over again.
My room’s a graveyard for dragonflies. Last week I found a silvery blue body. A crack on its wings, so pretty. I wanted to pin it, but I let it fly, for the last time; from my window to the ground, 13 feet below.
Yesterday I found a brown one when I got home. I’d only gone for two days. But this time it wasn’t just cracks. It was eaten through, nothing left but the shell of its remains. Torn wings and an empty tail. I didn’t let it fly this time. I placed it on the pot of my plant, waiting for it to decompose. Letting it decompose this time.
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