I hate my writing but I can’t stop: old fragments from previous journal
They say humans cannot truly feel moisture. That the change in temperature is what we are experiencing. Our DNA make up, how we evolved does not include the ability to feel this sensation. And so now I wonder, are there other things in life in which we think we feel something but is in fact actually not at all what it is? And does it even matter?
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I love looking up at the night sky and staring into the face of the bright moon adorned with the stars surrounding her. What I don’t like is when people try to correct me and say “that’s not a star that’s just a satellite.” Just let me dream that in this bright city where we can’t see any of mother natures beauty, that what I see is a rare glimpse of her. Anyways, isn’t it truly amazing that humans hung those satellites up there anyways?
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I have always been a firm believer that language is an imperfect tool to communicate one’s feelings fully. And yet, at the same time, how wonderful is it that a simple “I love you” can make someone’s day? As a self proclaimed writer with too many feelings and not enough pen and paper to express my inner world, “I love you” never fails to make my heart flutter.
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I told my therapist that my desk is covered in snow. I threw clumps of used balls of tissue in the air to lighten up the awkward mood. She laughed at my joke but kept her caring eyes on me. “When the snow melts, spring always follows,” she said. “Your spring is coming and I’ll be holding your hand every step of the way.”
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I have so much to say
But never have the right words.
So like a baby, frustrated that nobody understands
I scream.
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Winter is my favorite season.
Maybe it’s because I enjoy being surrounded
By the calmness of death,
Just before the energetic rebirth begins,
Just before possibility and potential turn red.
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I die a little bit everyday,
And a little bit everyday
I am born.
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I want to stand still
But the world does not let me.
Never asked for these strong legs
That keep me up
When all I want to do
Is sit down.
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Am I human or a poorly mass manufactured version of one whose original design has long been forgotten? Blindfolded and stuffed with force fed ideas made to think they were my own just before release?
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If all parts of a car is changed is it the same car? If everything that I thought made me me no longer feels like me… am I still the same person?