Everything is simple until we make it complicated and then we yell and cry because things aren’t going right when it is all in our heads. And I’m not saying that makes it less real just surreal moments in life should be enjoyed and not thought about or overthought about wondering if they will ever come again. That kind of thinking could make one go insane. I think perhaps I already am.
What’s going on? What do I hope to accomplish here with everything and all these written unspoken words that are out for the world to see, except no one really cares, do they? It is just another interesting text to read and forget about the next day. What if I wrote everyone a letter and posted it with their addresses on it, it would be a hassle I know. But wouldn’t it be better that way. Maybe it would bring a smile to someone’s face . I know there are over twenty letters accounted to the same name but atleast I will have two for myself and rest, I don’t even know the address of most. But to post it would take a lot of courage and I am just a coward, always. Like, how many times did I ever say what I felt when I felt that way? I just pointed the people to the letter with no name on it and said take it, take this shit.
Nobody deserved it. Even the good things, I don’t believe any longer that they did. When will this misery end? When will I be freed? I don’t think writing is a conscious choice for me. You could make me sit in front of a laptop screen and my hands would automatically start typing something or another thing or anything or maybe carve out a memory or a living breathing image or an emotion or ecstasy. Can you tell anything from my writing? Can you tell who I am? What sort of person I am? You just know about one string of thoughts strung in odd words when I’m bored, passionate or just being lazy avoiding work or studies. Or when I am thinking about a person or a thing too much. Doesn’t tell you shit, does it? Doesn’t create any sort of image in your head. Just parts of me out for display but even if I stand here naked, baring my skin and soul, your eyes still wouldn’t be able to see the deep dark hellhole that I carry around every day. So do make up your mind, assume you know me but in reality, I’m vaster than your comprehension. I exist beyond your wildest imagination. I am a new person with every moment and every word so all the names you attach to my skin and all the labels you might want to call me are redundant.
That is the reason why all of these letters are unsent.