i'm cold and breathing hard. the road is composed nearly entirely of small pebbles here. i don't know how i would be without the music
to fill my head. i'm worried about the tiny leaves on the trees and whether or not they will make it through the frost in the night. will they be stunted? how do the daffodils
feel about this frigid air.
i remember now that it is dark outside
and i have yet to prepare for the closed eyes and silence
. i have been trying to tell myself again what i need and what i do not. who i should love and how much
from outside my head it seems as though i'm trying to convince myself to be someone else, someone accomplished and confident. someone who fills their day with meaning and good intentions, if nothing else. instead i feel awkward, unravelled. i am incapable of feeling so much as i used to. or i am terrified that i no longer know how to feel
, at least. the two have become the same in my head despite the distance between.
it is certainly a simpler feat to withdraw entirely. i understand one can manage for quite some time in this manner.
soon it's earlier and you are here. standing in front of me. you are still, cold. refusing to move or speak and relieve the tension. and i can see this beast crawling around through the black in your eyes. i can't look at you anymore and i wonder if this makes you angry. i should be able to face the static in my head
. i've taken to sorting through a collection of things in my left pocket instead.
i want to paint
and i don't know how to paint
. will someone teach me about painting? the universe has tried to teach me, i think. i only seem to paint hills and rocks and trees. i guess that's all i ever think about when i draw, too. i want to ask someone a thousand questions and i can't because there is no one to ask that will understand why i need to know. and i need to know. can you teach someone to paint or do they just know? i've always wondered.
and writing - i want to write and write and it all falls so short
i sound and feel as if i am falling to pieces. i think, though, that tomorrow will feel less desolate. it's late and i want to be too much in love