I feel like the way I used to, when I lived with my parents. Inside, inside of myself. Who knew you could carry that around with you? The sickness, the feeling of bodily ill. The suppressed emotions, crushed, grinded under flesh and bone.
Sometimes I feel like <> doesn't understand my universe. The thought of forever translating my soul feels like an eternal nightmare.
And you try, and you try. And trying ends up becoming pointless. What's the point?
Remember when you used to be young and carefree. Things felt new, all the time. Endless nights, the excitement of the lights, potentiality.
That was an unsettlement that felt different than this one. This one hurts. That one felt full and hollow at the same time. What a time it was to be alive.
Then comes worldly troubles. And you become dormant. And when you awake, it's a new, strange Spring. And you have a new body, a new environment. A foreignness creeps in the grass.
I often feel like a sailor adrift on the sea.
And there are pretenses everywhere, and an expectation to be the perfect everything that doesn't exist and never did.
Living in nothing but smoke and mirrors. And the person you are looks back at me, and I don't know who you are anymore. Or who you ever were.
