I don't precisely know what to write here. I feel the yearn for passion press at my outer shell waiting to break free and catch. Catch to whom? Or what? Nothing special I guess. Just a scent on a shirt I never owned and piles of books I'm too guilty to read. Meandering is one of my lamest qualities. I'm capable of telling it how it is yet I find my throat swollen whenever I need to say the right thing. The things that are on my mind are yes, not always the kindest. My intentions are always good though, which I suppose to most people doesn't account for much. The willows are crisping and turning from green to amber and all I can think about it bright sun, hot weather, and conversation rolling over the hills of grass. The gasping of my heart as words felt their way around my ear and into my soul. Rambling, like previously mentioned is what I do best and since many things have been sitting in the core of my imagination, it seems my ramble will make less sense than usual. It's a collection of stories, real or not, true or simply exaggerated. Or is it all true? Or is it all just a fictional tale of things lost in my own sanity? How can I conjure such a thing? Well, quite easily. I will just write and you will construe it all as you please. That is what a writer does.That is the purpose of all the words being formed into lines. The reason is simply to get your brain moving. Or is it? Oh, hahaha.
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The fall is an uneasy time of year for those who dwell in the darkness of winter. Although for many it is the brightest time for their inner beauty to glow. I've never found a season that could fill me with such anticipation, just to leave me disappointed come the first snow fall. Then again, spring is so similar to fall, it seems that time of year will now have a permanent affect on me. These are the seasons of losing, you see. These are the seasons where most things, and especially people, are lost.
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My dreams are haunted with faces that stall the words on my tongue. Visions of their emotions plainly painted in their eyes. I can't decipher it, or perhaps I am too scared to. For all I know my weakness is what caused this all. The isolation; the dysphoric hate I've developed for myself. Then again it is truly the greatest fault that I cannot find the strength to fight back and re-win what was lost. No. No, I'd much rather remember it fondly and continue my life of wariness.
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the eyes you hope to see what is written are least likely the ones to stumble upon it. although my faith has lead me to believe that you are gone, the hope that you linger here stays.
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Perhaps, I am just losing my mind.
Perhaps.
But then again, it's all just temporary.
