Strange Solace

I haven’t quite figured out why, but there is an run down, abandoned parking lot between the Heritage Trail and the power plant where small yellow-brown butterflies like to congregate. It’s a strange solace to turn my head as I run past the otherwise unpleasant block of rocks and weeds (lacking aesthetic as most things are in this town), surrounded by trucks and cement buildings, and see them drifting about in the air, occasionally fluttering over the trail, through my legs and around my hair.

For a moment, in times like this, I have a sense of existential detachment; rather than being embodied by my self, I feel like I’m a bedside book I am reading, full of laughter and tragedy and transformation, paged through, worn, loved, enjoyed, and eventually, finished.

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About A B

"There is all this untouched beauty, the light, the dark, both running through me." -Over The Rhine
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