LeLove

I thought I knew how it felt, I thought I had memorized the feeling of not being happy, of wanting more, of being ajar. I though I had selfled for this second skin, the acceptance that sometimes it is just not a choice, it is a luxury to be able to feel what you wish to feel, and more often than not, life cannot afford such ease. The problem of being a dreamer, a writer, a poet, is not that they feel more than everyone else. It is that they cannot wscape from it. All the pain, ache and explosions, other can dismiss as merely a feeling that cannot be contained. But for us, there are endless words to describe the way we feel, to actualize the feeling, to give it existence, to graviate them. the irresistable impulse to label everything, to get to the bottom of every unexplainable feeling is crippling.

To live as a writer is non-apologetic. everywhere that you try to escape to, is aesthetically numb. even when you do not see what reminds you of it, words are running madness inside your head. This is about existing within a world where love is not on my side. This is about struggling every day to stay afleat. This is about my greatest love story. I thought I knew how it felt. I had made a pact with myself that I have no other choice. But that doesnt mean it makes it any easier to live with. Heartstings are broken whenever I think to myself, we'll never be right for eachother, but there will never be a way to find out. So many things remind me of you that not a day goes by that I am able to be completly content. The problem with being a dreamer, is that I feel too much for my own good. When I think about us, I feel dismaintained, familliars damaged and every imaniginable feeling in between. There is no other person as capable as you to destruct, love and forgive me. You may never understand it, but it is just a truth I have to live with. The idea of being happy is extraordinary. Sometimes I dream of not feeling. Of just existing. Of not being phsysically able to heart inside. I did not choose to be a person what feels too much, or someone that is compelled to write word after word after word. Everytime I think I could be content something thrusts me back into a higher feeling that I cannot control. I thought I knew how it felt, how everything is, how people are, but I cannot will my heart to think the same.