i can’t write like how i used to.
i’m not sure what’s happening. to me.
so i think i should start from the beginning and be honest.
i’m unstable. i’m sane.
i’m sad. i’m ecstatic.
i’m cold. i’m delicate.
i’m thinking of the things i left behind and the things that i’m left behind on.
i’m thinking about the days after tomorrow.
i’m thinking about the days before yesterday.
i’m thinking about lifting these burdens off my shoulder.
but i’m feeling like the burden on someone else’ shoulder.
i’m feeling this need to run home.
but no bases. no bats. no pitch.
so how can there be a home run?
everyday is another lost moment.
and i’m still waiting to see if i can swing that one shot.
like how i used to.
like that one time when the world was younger and i wasn’t that much older.
and even when i couldn’t quite make the home run, it feels a lot like i did.
reality is a bit too much for me sometimes.
it’s amazingly overwhelmingly too heavy for my tiny little heart.
and sometimes everything seems to hurt from the weight of it all.
but i think i should be fine.
this isn’t the first time something like this happens to me.
although i wished that the hurt would lessen with the number of times.
isn’t that just another variable people come across every single instance?
isn’t time just a space, a gap in the value of numbers of moments?
i wished that i could feel at ease
knowing that time would flow
and this too will pass
but even if it does
would it have changed anything?
and then what?
would it have been any better?
what else is there for a heart like this.
because the heart could not comprehend the concept of time as a reason to believe.
i’d say goodnight (but my heart’s saying goodbye)