I write to you. You may not know it or are even aware of it but i do. I sit on my desk and spin in my chair attempting to stitch a sentence together for you. I prick my fingers and continue as blood seeps through the pages of my journal. I love the way i thought you made me feel. Im still not quite sure who you are sometimes for my heart tends to blur out faces. Its either hurt or overjoyed by the extremes you have caused and frankly it’s getting duller. I never know where my thoughts go and honestly they surprise me. They take me on whimsical journeys and such but lately its been gloomy.
I write to you. Always. Just scroll through the pages of my journal. It holds blood and guts and frankly, thats what excites me. Its a raw monologue of emotion that we all avoid sometimes. I carve into paper to rid my skull of it because honestly it rings and shrills much too often. I think about you a lot and day dream and believe that someday you’ll change. But change never comes when you ask for it, it comes as a sly hurricane destorying your path to build you a better one. Or is it? Sometimes, i like to sit on my desk and think of times that never happened, to feel homesick for a home that never even existed to me. Just a shelter in me, i try and protect.
I write to you. I think of all the things I’d absolutely love to be and project them onto you. As if you are any different to me. I try so hard to imagine a perfection that is unattainable and it haunts me from the times my mind was so poorly. Its been difficult to ignore when I write you. Its been difficult to be honest with you although the thing i preach the most about is honesty with one’s self and the people that they love. You confuse me and vice versa and i just cannot comprehend the idea of you at times.
I bury these letters that i write so dearly to you in the walls of my journal. A place no one is allowed to visit. A place that is mine and so disgracefully mine that it is tainted. I write to you to let you know that I exist and its difficult when you ignore me. I only have your best interest although most of the time it may not seem like it. I love you. I do or at least i am learning to because i do not fully know you yet. Every crevice of that mind has not had light slant through it yet, they’ve only been used to drain the excess and the brutalities of others.
You need to know that i write to you so often even if you do not necessarily see it. You are on my mind more so than i’d like to admit. You are a library i have never referred to or more like blatantly refused to because i couldnt trust you and the shaky home you’d built to safeguard us. I see it now. I cherish it. I am rebuilding what i took for granted now. Thank you for the blank slate. Im going to try to not to let you down.