Do you know what I think of when I hear that?

Blackboards. And chalk. And all the dust that runs down between your fingers and hair and eyelids when you’re reaching up, when you’re reaching up with your thoughts, and with everything that endeavours, trying to put them on a shelf that’s high enough to show everyone, but not so high that every one can’t reach. 

And it makes me think about the moments in between, when you’re pushing and pulling in every direction, trying to find a way in, like a carpenter knocking for hollows in the wood, like a blind man trying to find the dark; it’s all there, and yet you can’t see anything. 


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