I Want Life And In All Its

I've Always Been Interested In Writing From The Perspective Of An Outsider.

Life Only Makes Any Sense If We Can See Time How God Does. Past, Present, And Future All At Once.

She Gathers My Half Of The Blankets Around Her And Curls Up Against The Wall. She Will Sleep For Hours More, Dreaming Endless Landscapes And Novas Of Colour Both Gorgeous And Frightening. If I Stayed She Would Wake Up And Describe Them To Me. All The Mad Plot Twists And Surrealist Imagery, So Vivid To Her While So Meaningless To Me. There Was A Time When I Treasured Listening To Her, When I Found The Commotion In Her Soul Bitter-sweet And Lovely, But I Can No Longer Bear It.

We Smile, Because This Is How We Save The World.

Are My Words Ever Actually Audible, Or Do They Just Echo In My Head While People Stare At Me, Waiting?