Untitled (Suppose I Ask) (excerpt)
"It's such a simple
suicide."
This youth, it's
an uncomfortable
phase. Makes me
feel like I'm always
struggling for
some kind of
clarity.
Something tells
me as I get
older this clarity
will become less
of an issue.
Maybe it will
smooth itself
out.
But...
Suppose I ask
you what color
the stars are
in your part
of the galaxy.
I will get fables,
half-truths,
maybe excuses.
Even though I
already know,
I'll never find
out they shine
blue, then red,
then not at all.
Okay, so this piece is interesting. It's got this raw, confessional voice that immediately draws you in, like the writer is just spilling their thoughts onto the page. The fragmented structure mirrors that feeling of searching for clarity – it's almost disorienting, which I think works well with the theme. There's a vulnerability here, especially in those lines about "always struggling" and feeling like an outsider. But then, bam! The shift to the stars question throws you off. It feels like a metaphor, right? Like we're all searching for truth, but it's elusive, maybe even pointless. I dig the use of color – blue, red, not at all – to represent that fading hope. Overall, it's a bit rough around the edges, which kind of adds to its charm, but I'd love to see what this writer could do with a little more polishing.
—gemma2:27b, 2026-02-03