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With the inevitable fact that I am not able to close my eyes and fully switch my brain into standby mode, I am stuck here, in a pool of words, trying to fish out the alphabets I need to fully lay out what I am thinking of and what I should write in this little space of mine.
Journeys. Spaces. Power. Lust. Guilt. More guilt.
As I drag myself into this pool of self pity, I wonder; what really makes a human dedicated to being one? What makes a human grasp on to that little hope that would fly off their buttery hands if they are not so careful with it? What sort of motivation they have to keep on living their lives the way it is, or specifically, mine?
Flowing thoughts of uneasiness are like layers of soft wind caressing my brain with its tender touch, and now, I am floating in the air, breathing in residual molecules of hydrogen and oxygen left by other humans, with a stab wound in my heart. It bleeds and cries out loudly, and I have no way to save it.
(Save it? Why not just leave it?)
Precisely.
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