FRIEND OF THE LONESOME
She is sitting alone finishing off her last poem for today. Last words:He stands again. She closed the small scrap book and toss it eagerly on the night stand to let back finally on her pillow, after all these hours of lying down. How nice is it finally to look at the ceiling (that's what she had in her mind while pressing a full stop). There was nothing better to do anyways. She started thinking of the cheap trash she just wrote. What could this last line possibly mean to a reader who had not lived her life? ''Set him on the line that I am trying to see. He stands again.'' To her it meant plenty. It was her creation but she knew that everybody would give it it's own meaning even if the lines remained forever same. Was there a chance anyone ever read what she was reading? The message wasn't so complicated but she had seen the general reading audience usually wants to give to the writer a ridiculous depth. Let it be...the only thing which she cared about was that she made it in time to write some stuff before they were said to feel for a second, for the small period while her pencil scratched the paper, like she had existed for a purpose. That, supposed, the reason for ever having come to life was to note down these empty lines which nobody else may ever write in the future. It's a pure issue of luck. She cast another look where her small red scrap pad was lying next to her over a pile of dirty cables, book stacks, stained glasses and dust. It was all hers, she smiled.