Every Day

Since I posted my first 100-word story submission here, I figured I’d throw out my second submission. It’s not a story with a beginning and end, but it does tell a story.

I think.

Okay, I get why it was rejected. It feels more like a poem, but whatevs.

The awareness of the illusion is always there. With nothing real, what is there worth anything? How could there be something to have or someone to hold or any moment to savor or any memory to cherish? How is it all not merely a specter desiring to be seen as it desires to be believed as the forgotten walk step for step in divine remembrance? Surrounding but not present in the endless torment to which we damned ourselves, trying to comfort us in our wandering and wondering if it is or will be worthy of transience through the tactile unreal.

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