losing
blind panic. lost a pen. lost the paper. lost a mind, somewhere in the mires of a shiny reedbedded mudbank in a wary descent toward enticing deep water.
Thick, ferny, bracken-rich forest surrounds. in amongst the greenery, items are lost. Events are lost. People are lost. Solid, real objects sublime into the thin mists hanging despondently in the furrows of earth. Ever waiting for human or animal beings to wander past, to happen upon the items embraced in tiny mist specks and transplant their essence elsewhere.
For the duration of those ten minutes, a mass of mists amalgamated. All became real. The playful calling of birds. The low hums of the skylife. The grasses rustling their hushed suspicions away from the rippled water’s worries. And the own tiny cacophony surrounding the ears of the fortunate.
Where pens and paper slip from the radar of conciousness, so do we. Sometimes.
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