Words scribbled on a hand in smudged red ink. Perused so many times over. The sweet words cradled in my soft hand to cry joyfully over.
Eyes bleary from lack of sleep. Sleep which refuses to visit this soul wracked by spasms of bittersweet lovely malaise. Not the same as the depression, these feelings come from a better source, and are thus part way welcomed. Yet there is no sense, method, or outlet for and to them.
A painfully lovely poem written in the half light of the morning, in a sudden surge of foolish passion.
The window ajar and yawning in the early morning. The cold air of the morning sweeping in over my bare arms and shoulders, amicably freezing me. The breeze wafts in the pleasurable scent of a fresh spring rain. Even a few drops are blown to kiss my icy face and blinking eyes. Inhaling the scent of the rain, drinking it in voraciously. To wash away my asperity, and even my sweet intoxication.
Withdrawn back to bed. To snuggle under my covers and cradle my hand of writing nigh my face. Slowly drifting into unconsciousness to relieve me into forgetfulness from everything I have thought and felt.
Insanity feels to be my close companion. Insanity and denial. Hand in hand we walk beside that which they shield me from. I am far from confused, but it is the weapon I wish to wield and the feeling to bestow upon everyone else. Confusion is a veil to blind eyes whilst I may straighten things out. Layered swirls of awe, curiousity, wonderment, and crazy, untruthful ideas. Not in me, but perhaps for you.
Speculate as you will, for I am now silent upon this topic.