Unfinished

I know the sag of the unfinished poem. And I know the release of the poem that is finished.
Mary Oliver

Usually, before I come up with a story to write or plan, it first begins with a conversation in my head. It could be a conversation between two or more people, and the content of this conversation would eventual be the base of the whole story. The rest of the story is then built around the conversation. I would admit that sometimes the story hits a deadlock and other times it just flourishes, anyway here is one of those conversations.

boy, where do I start….I still haven’t found what I was looking for, but the feeling is still there. That nudge toward peaceful emptiness. The ‘it’ that you can sense it coming, but doesn’t seem to ever arrive. I feel….no, I know something is coming, might not be bad but not entirely good either.

“you need to quit with the drinking” she said to me for the hundredth time

“hey, leave me just this one vice, every man needs to be weak to something else they ain’t human.” I think to myself, our weakness is the very essence of humanity, else we would be like animals who maul’s it fellow animal with little or no remorse….”at least I don’t do drugs ehnn…”

she just stared at me without saying a word, cause her weakness is a weight she rather carry herself.

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