I feel like my life is a mess of words - words I think but don’t say, words I say but don’t mean, and words that I write, endlessly, overflowing every minute particle of myself, saying precisely what I want, but not in reference to myself.

I can’t seem to do anything aside from snatch the words fluttering around my brain and try and make sense of them in sentences and paragraphs and stories exuding every desire I have. It’s funny though, because you’d never assume these things are what I want if I didn’t plainly state it. You wouldn’t think anything more of those sentences and paragraphs and stories because I don’t let you think you should.

All I am composed of right now is letters than don’t even make sense to me, and strangely, I am okay with that.