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Lost stories

I wonder about all the empty faces I pass by on trains, in buses, in airports, on planes. I wonder what brings them here and pushes them to go there, the invisible force that palpitates their hearts and impels their feet to lift and drop, squeeze and subside.

I wonder about their stories. 

Who hears them? Absent-minded spouses, selfish young children, grasping sexualized one-night stands, or dead-eyed, crank-snorting strippers.

Who hears their stories or are they all just lost?

Lost in the isolated echo chambers of each one’s own minds? Disappeared into finger-taps onto glass screens, swallowed down with battered fruit and squelched spinach, shuffled along by the push/slap of running shoes on pavement, the desperate breaths of souls dying inside?

Who hears when there are no ears open? Who hears when hearts are closed off, do not disturb, under construction, condemned?

Who hears the lost stories? Who keeps them? Who feeds on them?

Who frees them?


About Quinn

In it but not of it. A reformed player, now watcher. Speaker of raw truths.


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Raison d’etre

"Raw," she said. "I want something primal. I want something bare and naked. I want you to give me this life raw, unbidden, unhidden, free, fair, and true. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?"

One may only try.

July 2015
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