A sharp line separates me from the past. A dark line scrawled across grey divides my life in two. There is no crossing this border, only blurred memories, smears of colour drowning in shadow. Transfigured beyond the barrier, your image remains vivid. Seared into the depths of my memory, the light you cast in those years rekindles my dreams each day. You exist beyond my world, outside this tangible, ordinary world that shapes my future now. You're so distant that on mornings like this I cannot tell if I invented you, if you're something I alone believe in. You're so distant that my restlessness becomes merely a single sustained note that fills the space of my silence.
# Line A single stroke drawn across the void— not yet a horizon, not yet a boundary. Just the pencil's whisper, the brush's thought made visible. It could be a tightrope, a scar, a smile, the edge where water meets what isn't water. It could be the seam between yesterday and tomorrow, holding them apart or holding them together— who can say? I've watched lines divide kingdoms, connect the lonely to the stars, become the spines of books that crack with reading, the cracks in walls that remember earthquakes. A line is the shortest distance between two points of longing. Sometimes it trembles. Sometimes it's steady as a vow. Sometimes it breaks, and we learn that breaking is its own kind of truth, its own way of continuing.
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