She hangs the flowers to dry by her bed, adding a small nail to the wall for them to cling to. She picked up this habit from her childhood friend, she supposes, but maybe she would have done it anyways in this life. She has her fingers in the dirt frequently, after all. On some level the flowers represent the occasion on which they were given, but they also represent nothing, A last attempt to preserve memories any other way than digitally. As she falls into the void of blue light before bed, these worlds dance around her. Digital, conceptual, physical.
About the Creator
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from Cassie Gault and writers in Poets and other communities.
Do animals kill themselves?
Do animals kill them selves? I ask myself today, after hearing the news of your passing away. I sit by the river, and watch tadpoles swim, when this question is posed: “what’s so different about them?” How simple their life, to just be and exist. No questions or worries, no imposed purpose. How do we know the extent of life’s reach? What toll was given to the starfish dried up on the beach? Does a bird fly into a window caused by a lack of understanding, or because just like us, life became too demanding? Does a worm reject its needs and decide to quit trying- or did the sun beat too hot, and the ground began drying? What’s so different about humans that we see in such color, but life muddles the painting, and it begins to feel cluttered. How unfair that we were burdened with the privilege of self-awareness. What joy and sorrow that weighted gift bears us. Do animals kill themselves, I ask myself once more. Are we so different from them? I’m not really sure.
By Cassie Gault26 days ago in Poets
Confessions of an Empath
The birds are chirping, and the sun is shining in a cloudless July sky. The vibrancy promises a beautiful day, but the cooing of the Mourning Dove perched on the powerlines seems to be more fitting than the lively songs of the robin flitting through the trees. The melancholic calls of the dove cloak the world in a sadness that hangs like tattered drapes.
By Alyssa Nicole5 days ago in Confessions
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.