1.27

I wrote of a story I saw inside myself

It told of the seven seasons

In an almost made up world

Built on dreams with nightmares of their own

A world where I can almost see you

Your calm and gentle presence

Scaring the creatures away

You're just a thought there

An almost complete reflection

Like the morning sun

That finally comes after a long night

Like sand written words

Promising complete worlds

Only to be washed away by the inevitability of the universe.

But they were real

Weren't they?

Those almost promises

In this story

Where each season marks a new beginning

Of unlived lives and unkept promises,

I see an almost made up forever

Of you and I.

I can't write very well and words often fail me

I do keep on trying

I don't even know what I do this for 

Why do I share this and not one of the other dozens that pass through my fingers?

I can't say

I feel so small in this room

In this world

In this life

I have no right to be heard or read

I talk and write anyway.

But why do I do this

Is it for you?

A part of me desperately trying to reach out?

Trying to deny reality?

If you know how I felt things would be different?

Is that it? Is this what I think and why I share my dumb juvenile thoughts?

One day maybe I'll have a good answer

The bad answer is the simple one

Probably the correct one.

Occam's razor, Law of parsimony

You know the reason

We both do.