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The loneliness is the main thing.
You don’t really overcome it;
you are just able, on good days,
to pass it on the street or
those narrow avenues of silence
with no confrontation, without
so much as the usual searching
glance that’s always as plain as
the words, you have been carved
like wood and there is not
one thing in this brick and
steel wilderness that is quite
the right shape to contain you
without holding an irreverent blade
to your finely sanded surface.

That loneliness, it’s too proud
to stalk you down the corridors
of your most judged, most
defended choices, the dangerous
alleys where you’re most vigilant.
It’s that casual emptiness, that
congruous absence sitting in the
middle of your glorified routine,
not giving you pause until it speaks
and you’re caught off guard
finding that all the answers are
so far away and out of place and
you’re reduced to the handful of
moments that haven’t yet faded,
the raging distance between
the person who was headed here
and the person who will never be
the same upon arrival.

“Temple of Poseidon” by photographer Kostas Pasvantis


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