Standing still infers a choice, at least when compared to being frozen.
Turns out I still haven't learned to not write in metaphors.
Does it matter if I can't find the right word? To just know that it's in there somewhere, waiting for me to dig it out? Will it help to point the finger? Right here, this one, this moment...
Searching for answers, and then it occurs to me that there may not be one. Maybe I'm not asking the right question.
It's not about being clingy. It's about having nothing to cling to.
Can I force myself to ask a new question? is it really possible to skip a step? If it was wouldn't I have skipped to the ending by now?
Notice the punctuation.
I am so free inside my mind. There is nothing I can't think to death.
Can this be enough?
Is that it?
Have I just never been enough?
It's so cliche. Why am I so afraid of being cliche? I don't want to be special, I just don't want to think the answer has being lying in front of me. I have not been consciously turning a blind eye.
"Why" is my question, and why shouldn't it be? There is so much wrong with that question, but there is nothing really wrong with anything, is there?
These words do not hold the meaning of a touch. It's not a fence, or a wall. It's a fear.
For everything I am I also am not. We're back at the beginning, except I'm stuck at the end. Are they not the same?
Black and white he says. What about violet?
It's in what gets left behind. I have been empathizing with inanimate objects.
In the past
It seems once I write it down, it fades.
There is no warmth to be found in the furnace as I search through the icicles.
Will you let me rewrite the dictionary? Because I think I'm going to.
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