I don’t know what’s good anymore. I write, and write. there’s a collection of past emotions pilled up between the pages in the notebooks that raid the cupboard, and I don’t know what I feel anymore. I write, and write.

I don’t know if those feelings still reside and hold a place in the veins that run my body and beat the heart with the blood that allows me to realize – i’m still alive, but not to understand how I feel. I don’t know if that feeling is as true as the emotion defines it to be or if that feeling is undefined, and yet undefinable. and yet, is that the complete reason I don’t understand myself?

if there is not a comlplete reason by the understanding of metaphors and how they correlate a dialogue between imaginary things and realistic ones, are my feelings just not as uncontrolled as that very variable? yet, the understandings say we can be in control of our feelings. they are a choice we decide.

so I decided to feel that way about you, and about myself, and I decided to spill all of that out onto a broken tree that just doesn’t listen anymore, with some weird hope that I’ll have been founded and printed like Einstein and never forgotten. that my love for someone who the world never knew would somehow be relatable just because of the fact that my emotions and feelings were printed and I was known. I was finally known, and so was the depth of how i loved.

how I loved you, and how I loved myself. the how’s would be utterly clear and published and rested on bedside tables, and wrapped in christmas decor. the how’s would be used as quotes in memoirs and in fond memories of a fine poet. the how’s would become answers for the wishful and the hopeless.

but the why, the why would forever be unknown. forever undefined. forever undefinable.

life, love, and expression

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♡