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A Writer Cut in Two Like a Pencil

They saw him as an equal because
he wasn't; he was above them because
of his variation of social problems, such as
slurred speech—but that didn't stop him from
seeing all as normal and unique as he was,
however the two could be combined—
He was blind. Couldn't physically see, but
that was the extent of his disability. Him and
them weren't combination, because  they were
jealous of him, of his brilliant eccentricity, the
way he could communicate who people were
and how they felt about life—
Once again he was cut off, when they decided
to snap his walking stick, crush his hands,
sting his dog's eyes with pepper spray—
He was fine with this, because they gave him
something to write about, making him harder for
them to grasp, to only
awe, wanting him to go on. Except that wasn't
true, about him being okay with everything.
He couldn't go on. Didn't. It was hard now that
they had broken his fingers. He couldn't
read anymore
into these savage-crazed lunatics. Normally he'd
write about them. But not anymore.

2 Aug 08

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may your pen always flow with readings in which we get to know your very soul -- you've a mastery of the descriptive contrasting form in which you take the lowly norm and raise it to a new way to see, in verity -- well writ and I'm listening
 — AlchemiA

thanks AlchemiA. it's always good to know you paid a visit.
 — listen

i like the kind of character you depict here
for some parallels/similarities i can relate to.

thank you for stuff like this.
: )
 — fractalcore

thanks Fractalcore. good to see you.
 — listen