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By Charlie Brook

I listen to the bells outside my window

Ancient and proud, heralding another hour passed

The sun sets miraculously, painting my walls with golden light

Even this late in the evening, it paints

The bell rings, the hour passes

Another hour of staring at the wall and wondering

How do I let my time go

Without big parks, I let it go laying in my bed thinking about what it means to be fulfilled

(And how many choices you have to make to get there)


Can you love a place and be afraid of it at the same time?


I’m not afraid of being here, but I am afraid of the implications of it

Being here means not being there

But where would there be? And why

I feel like I’m living in the reverberations of a choice

Rather than actively celebrating the one I made


And must I always make things weigh more than they do

Assigning a deeper meaning to every movement

Can’t it just mean that I’m here and I like it right now


I’m not sure how to enjoy passing time in a new life that doesn’t yet feel like mine but is

Playing at living here rather than really letting myself do it

Because of the fear that it could quickly be taken from me by one swift blow to us


Would this still be the here that I would choose if it wasn’t for you?

Or would I be there in a heartbeat, eager to pass time

Without the implications of being there for anything

Feeling weightless but alone

And probably still weighed down by my goddamn inability to be light


I choose here, and I choose you

But I also choose starting at painted walls

And losing myself in why