Eight.

When you have it, it's dumped in a corner, a trophy to be admired, but only from a distance. You do pick it up, but only to ponder on the various cracks and crevasses that line its surface, the imperfections reaching across the line to slap you in the face. It may be a trophy, but its as close to a participation medal as there is. And then you lose it. You start to feel the raw ache of loneliness, the pangs of solitude, totally undeserved. You remember the cracks as untouched valleys, pristine in their beauty, the trophy as having had great sentimental value. You want it back, and you want it back bad. And when you do find it, back it goes into the corner. You tell yourself that it was easy to find, that losing it again wouldn't be that bad anymore, that it wasn't worth the search anyways. The valleys are only endless pits to fall through now, to get lost in interminably. Mankind only wants what it cannot have. Idiots.

2 comments:

RANDOMOSITY (is that a word?)

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