Down six steps and under the fire escape.

Don't knock on the door, follow the hall to the end.

Go through the curtain and around the corner.

Follow the music.

Yes, just there, through that door.

Don't speak. Find a seat, even if it's on the floor.

Yes her voice is real, though you expect wings to sprout from her back at any time.

Put down your phone. This isn't for the masses. Did they make the pilgrimage? Did they risk the dank, dangerous streets?

They don't deserve to hear it. The phone won't capture it anyways.

Just sit. Listen. Wrap your arms around your knees and let the tears fall. Rock yourself, if you need to, lean against your neighbor, they'll support you.

Feel the hairs lift on your arms, your neck. Your skin pebbles, your mouth goes dry.

This. This is real. This is deep. This is emotion and pain and the solitude of life.

Shh. Let the silence wrap around you. Sit in it. It's ok. She sing again. But for now the silence must reign.

Let go. Just be.


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AislingWeaver (joined over 11 years ago)
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Aisling Weaver has been plucking at the threads of dreams for decades but only recently has dared capture the senses with words. She writes from a tiny corner of the world known to few on stolen time and borrowed inspiration. By day chained to a desk when set free she delves the shadowy recesses where desire, need, lust and passion meet the spectrum of emotion.

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