Knowing myself is never easy. Writing about myself, even one single word, is difficult, knitting thoughts, i've never found easy. Yet I do it, constantly. Thirty four years, wrapped in a quilt, an eiderdown, a blanket, the easy route. Nostalgic, no tears, only emotion, wrought, wrung and put through a mangle.
There is no victim, no strangling, there is only, the throttled thought, a bare red neck and a blank pair of eyes, there are several hundred blank pages. Not a day goes by when I don't think things could have been so different...if only...if only. But this doesn't help. It is only consolation in a prism.
I simply do not know who I am. In the space of a sentence, I shift from sunrise to sunset, a gleam in the eye of the moon, and then the death of it. I cannot even finish this piece. And that is the most frustrating thing about it.
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