He.
He walked up the hill. Past gentrified houses and boarded up shops.
Past thoughts that slowly dwindled in the mind; tumbleweed.
An Old Western played out in his head. The Dark. The Light.
He.
He sat. On a bench. That looked out across the city. Not just any city
But that’s my secret. Guns were pulled. Pistols at dawn. Breathing.
He looked. He. And then felt the belly rise and fall. People passed.
He.
Noticed them as he would the trees. The air. The buildings. The View.
Oh The view. The view. When thoughts tire and gunshots fire. Opposing
Sides no longer reside. Breathing. He breathes. He is breath. Breath.
Trees. He… Remembering the days before language had formed.
Creative Writing and Mental Health 
I love the way we can drift with his thoughts, both disturbing and still; the rhythm breathing.
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The madness of the internal struggle even though it may be a beautiful day but then great when unexpectedly I sit on a bench, relax, look out across the city and for once it all fell away. It had been awhile since I had one of those experiences. Ah The View. The View.
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Yes, time lost in beauty, very precious.
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