Beyond the Fourth Wall
Prose, I suppose.
Walk with me.
It is a difficult thing to do. To inspire the reader to take active part. To gently persuade they who read these words to place their feet where mine now stand.
My mentor tells me that it is nigh impossible to do with the written word because the reader has simply to look away and the feeling is gone, never to be recaptured.
We have but one chance you and I to do this. There is only ever, a single first time for anything, and then it is gone.
The moment is fleeting, like a snowflake melting on an eyelash, and then it is gone.
There is only one first touch of a lover that quickens the heart and makes the chest feel like lead. A tightening of the stomach in fear of the unknown, as clumsy lips brush those that dare to say 'yes' by saying nothing.
There is no comfort like comfort shared.
There is no sadness like shaking sobs that we let ourselves feel, pulled close to us, our cheeks wet with tears that are not our own.
There is a sound as forehead presses to forehead and hair crushes, a sound like shells washed on a beach. A sound that is never forgotten, a smell that remains always with us, a taste, a touch, a feel.
It is a difficult thing to do. To inspire the reader to take active part. To gently persuade they who read these words to place their feet where mine now stand.
My mentor tells me that it is nigh impossible to do with the written word because the reader has simply to look away and the feeling is gone, never to be recaptured.
We have but one chance you and I to do this. There is only ever, a single first time for anything, and then it is gone.
The moment is fleeting, like a snowflake melting on an eyelash, and then it is gone.
There is only one first touch of a lover that quickens the heart and makes the chest feel like lead. A tightening of the stomach in fear of the unknown, as clumsy lips brush those that dare to say 'yes' by saying nothing.
There is no comfort like comfort shared.
There is no sadness like shaking sobs that we let ourselves feel, pulled close to us, our cheeks wet with tears that are not our own.
There is a sound as forehead presses to forehead and hair crushes, a sound like shells washed on a beach. A sound that is never forgotten, a smell that remains always with us, a taste, a touch, a feel.
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