frayed, interlaced
Realizing how lonely it is, to be unable to put expression and thoughts into words towards those you wish to know better. To be unable to tie the intent and meaning you have into the words you weave, wish to feel less fleeting and empty in passing- to wish you can share any moment that doesn't fade through the pauses, slip between the cracks in scarcity. To not have the energy, the mutual interests, to feel like you can't bring to bear anything that fosters any lasting relation. Familiarity and acknowledgement in the nuances that govern such delicately metered dynamics- or is it all fabricated by the mind? What if it's not? Unable to express how the threads weave together between one stitch and the next, eyelids droop as the flesh overclocks and computes, counted silverware dwindles and the cycle begins anew.
Would fading into afterthought and accepting all that could never be sting less than brushing against a just out-of-reach reality? Be content in serving as a spectacle every now and then, perhaps. Too much to think about- silence becomes a catharsis that perpetuates. A self-made prison.
Too different.
Too strange.
I speak softly and take comfort in words spilled forth in a space tucked in a corner where few think to look. Hello, hello.