Feels hard to speak, to write, sometimes, when words are everywhere, falling down like drops of rain across the blank white page you stare into as you chat. Words are dipped into different font styles and sizes like chocolate, or fresh and new clothes being dyed and hung out to dry, coated with a layer of elaboration and a skin of description here and there, brushstroke after brushstroke, (like this one here that you're reading, that I'm in the process of finishing), and flung carelessly by a blow of wind spiralling out from the lips of a billion faceless strangers, into restrictive boxes of paragraphs, so they wobble and scream the moment they catch sight of your eyes, and you follow them for as long and as far as you can manage, with a single breath of inhaled air, before they trick you and lose you (like how this unending sentence has lost you), and you wonder, really, why bother, to say your say? Everything you want to say, has most probably, already been said. What worth, how much weight or significance, do your words truly hold? Who do you write for? And who really reads them, and takes them in?
I write for you, sitting here reading this, and me, sitting here writing this. I'm toying with the words jutting earnestly out from my mouth, and digging into the threshold of words carved over the various surfaces of all the things I've ever seen and felt, just to numb, just to kill, the restless anxiousness of tiny red ants scurrying across a beating heart, held in the palms of my shaky hands, while the night deepens and darkens, from blue to black, and black to black, and the hour stretches into yet another, and I continue this trifling feather-light rambling I tend to do- sometimes substantial, and mostly forgettable- known to some of my friends personally as Nonsensical Verbose Emo Shit.
Life is good. Ups and downs. I'm okay. Sometimes more than okay. And that's enough. :)