I wrote this while studying Neruda's 'Tonight I Can Write'. Personally, I don't like Neruda because he's too mainstream about things. 'Tonight I Can Write' is a poem about love, which is as mainstream as it can get, and I cannot connect to that at all. So I thought I'd write my own love 'something' which I could connect to. The thing about this 'something' is that I'm unsure whether to label it as a prose piece or a poem. So, let's think of it as a prose-poem, yeah?
Love starts off as being a plastic bag. You're addicted to it. It feels as though you won't be able to function without it. It is easy and comfortable and convenient to carry around and hard to tear. And you keep finding it on the street corners in heaps; used and discarded by people before you.
And then, love transforms into a plastic bag. It envelops you. It feels as if it is growing tighter around you. It isolates you from everything else. It begins to suffocate you. It doesn't seem to want to let go of you and you're worried that it will kill you. So you throw it away in a street corner, just like people before you.So... What do you guys think?
