for me, writing is so very therapeutic - it's a visceration of sorts, to try and lay down the beautiful thoughts i sometimes have and fold into them some sort of everyday warmth.
and they always speak to a particular 'you' - no one exactly, i've never quite had a special 'you' to talk about, so perhaps i'm writing to myself - secret messages between the part of me that thinks and the part of me that feels, passed through a wall grown so thick beneath the shamrock vines that mean nothing short of security - but now both of these parts are so closed off, so lonely, so beautiful, and so long-forgotten about and underestimated that they're compelled to make me question and wonder;
what's the point?
No comments:
Post a Comment