Sunday, 27 November 2016
We would sit and swing our feet over the ledge, we'd bring our hurt and worries and push them all over the edge. Let them tumble down the walls and spill out on the ground. Let them fumble as they licked their way along the roads across our town. Let them gnaw at ankles and tickle at the feet, of all the people passing mindless, busy, scurrying like ants and sheep. Eventually, perhaps, we'd fill it all so deep, with bitterness and thoughts betraying our ability to sleep, that the whole town would drown in loss and hopelessness; despair. That we'd be kicking our feet no longer in the air, but treading down the horrors of our days. Or relaxing, kicking back, and letting misery lap at us like waves.