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Wandering Thoughts


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That Wanderer made her way into a private room, as a bag followed behind her. Ideas ruminate in her mind, of all the experiences she stood witness to, how strange and humorous existence was to her. The bag thumped onto the floor, as she looked idly over the empty room. An avid imagination, clashed with vivid imagery she has watched or divined by choice or by happenstance. She begins to set up an easel, in the private abode, so no mortal eyes might pry. She removes her gloves, and stains the side of her hand in ink, as paper made its way onto the easel's rest. She begins to pat the paper canvas, as her tired eyes stare. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, she wanted to laugh, she wanted to love, she wanted to hate. Such a paradox she'd managed to let fester in her thoughts and soul.

She looks over what she done so far, and found it acceptable, as she takes a pencil in hand and begin to put lines to the canvas, swiftly done, as she desperately pushes dark reflections aside, a single question protruding her thoughts
"Where does the material and immaterial truths begin, where does the dreams begin, where was the line, where did it end?" The Sketch was finished, and so she began the final stretch of her creation, and applied thin layers of a dark oil paint over her sketch, and it was finished. Her clean hand reaches up, as it began to uncurl fingers to fervently scratch and scratch at her eyes, until that arm grew tired and dropped to her side, idle eyes over the canvas, her expression blank until tiredness overcame her, and simply slept on the floorboards below.. Her last lingering thought was of that subject of her drawing, was it a lie? or was it truth..




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