This is film. Woohoo.
I think it’s that absence between exhausting your tear ducts and between you never allowing your eyes to be anything but dry. It’s that place where you wish you could cry but you can’t. All that comes out is this awkward, animalistic howl. Then nothing. But isn’t that why you feel empty in the first place? Isn’t it because of said nothingness?
My words will not come out in beautiful poems and they will not whisper myths of enchantment. The inspiration has evaporated from my speech and my body is left as brittle bones with only a thin sheet of skin to cover. I can’t find a way to woo you or make you swoon over whatever talent you believe I possess. And I wish he’d stop looking at me like I’m something wonderful, as if my mind is built of glass cities with the purest blood flowing through my veins. For the truth may be that bankruptcy has stolen my mind’s city from me and the bloodstreams have stopped flowing due to insufficient feelings.
I am not talented as I write these words. I’m nothing but honest. Rawness fills my heart because it’s all I can care to depend on. Sometimes these become the things I can never be because of the delicate shapes of my soul that will not fit into the correct, man-made hole.
But you have to see that with a head unscrewed and a mind under construction, I am simply just another shadow sweeping across the absented space between control and being human. I don’t worry though, if I am made up of nothing and living in nothingness than I am nowhere. Which can be anywhere, which technically could be everywhere without chaos. Therefore, if you really want to play the game of who can be the biggest optimist, I just might win. Although, my words have grown dull and my willingness has numbed, the fact is, if I am nothing…I am limitless. And who hasn’t wished, once upon a time, to be infinite?
\Sorry for all of that guys. I sometimes forget writing can be…therapeutic.\