Do You Sense That? She Nervously Questioned. Feeling What? Does The Earth Sway? The Stars Assemble? Are

Every day is unique. Nothing will ever be the same again. Even the similarities will never be identical. Both tragedies and joys will never fall on the same plain again. And why are we so adamant about refusing something we've written and are familiar with?

When we had a very lovely day. When something excites us. When the day welcomes us with its silkiness and softness. We grow fixated on the idea that each day will be identical to the previous one. All of the fortune cookie wisdom vanishes.

As a result, each day is unique. Why is it so difficult for us to live each day in this manner?

10/2—

I am beyond myself in these moments of what is and what isn't.

No longer mindful of how I come across to others.

I need to avoid repeating my sorrows. As a result, carry the haunted pain with you forever.

My eyes hurt, and my ribs hurt. Heart filled with sorrow, but I'm still left alone by my own thoughts.

How is that even doable? Have I turned into a was? Is my new identity just a reimagining and a pale version of who I once was?

Cannot reproduce these feelings.

It is not easy to ignore the urge to be reckless in the absence of a cause. I shall be rebellious under the pretentious circumstances. It is fun. Hmm. Why are there limitations to life? Maybe because we die?

We die for what? The fact that we live and survive? So what is life? Why the two sides of me? Dammit. Fear no death. Fear not living /living/ okay. Breathe. Yes, extra breathes.

There is a poem here. Not an ode of declaration to the philosopher's questions of death. This is a poem. Repeat it. This is a poem. Reverse it.This is...my declaration of confusion.

|| Saw it coming. Erwarte niemals etwas. Hoffnungen zerschlagen.

Never again. And yet? It'll happen again. Fucked up but true— that's what happens when you let life, get the best of you. Cold hearted, bitter and tear stained, so in the end it happened like I imagined and I hurt myself again. Better off just keeping memories and moving on. Conflicted soul, torn thoughts and often alone. That's what happens when life leads us. Be prepared. Be aware. And...never...

You need to come in and conquer me. Take me down a notch from my overlapping thoughts. Knock me down with your kindness and wisdom. Just help me, and I will help you.

This. Really, really, really—felt this.

i am always giving, and never receiving. when is it my turn to be special to somebody

Sea or ocean. Painter: Lionel Walden.

In writing, I seek the ultimate validation from me. Not from others. I seek the validation from my past. Are I a reflection of my past self? How many candles, meditations, and cleansings do I need?

Are I doomed to forever fall flat against the marks I've made for myself? Am I not entitled to the desire for truth? What's been placed upon me, is my own burden. My own weight. I am fighting and resisting me. How do I let go?

In this case...I am the lesson. In this case...I am the bridge scorned, for believing that at such a time, I could ever feel open enough to have. Have? Have what? Even I am confused. Hell, I've burned myself twice as poster and imposter for what can be. In this case...I am the bridge scorned.

Thus I write. And I'll keep writing until my fingers are numb. Until my eyes grow tired. Until my mouth becomes dry. Until my limbs ache, my heart stops, and my mind shuts down until I am not there anymore. But I will write. My sin, my success, my tragedies, and the unknown that surrounds me.