writing is weird.
sometimes the words flow out like a perfectly organized symphony
other times they are jagged and clog up the drain of my mind.
the words just want to be understood
they want to speak in their own language
but you see
that's the problem
I forget the language
Sometimes by day
Sometimes by week
Sometimes by month
I always relearn it
but it takes time
that's the way I am today
I guess I'm in the process of
I know there's something in there
but it's hiding in a cranny of my mind
and I can't quite get it out yet.
that's a problem.
maybe the words escape easier when I am in distress
when I'm not sure which book to read
or what my favourite flavour of ice cream is
when I'm waiting on that three o'clock call
or that 11:30 text
or that random email that I'm sure is coming
tho I'm not quite sure when
maybe my words are bolder and more triumphant on the page
when my mind is not content to sit and watch Spencer Reid
on the TV screen
when Prussia has reached his utmost awesome
(which, let's be honest, will never happen)
and I no longer fangirl over the things I love
when I'm discontent
with staying in one place
I have to do something
I need to do something
I did something.
maybe that's the key.
but you can't bottle up that feeling
you want this too
I know you do
maybe I'll figure it out
I need to keep on
or else I'm utterly lost.