I write down the things that I think because I foreshadow all things that I feel.
I realize I have known things from the start. Multiple times I write a few words that become lost in the history of my daily life. I never know that I was right, until it’s already over.
A sick ability, to give myself advice, and a saddening realization, that many times I don’t listen.
I read my words and hear the same thoughts in my mind every time I read them. And although my second mind repeats it’s chorus, what my first mind manages to jot down is always different. Like multiple people witnessing the same crime, I can never count on what I thought I knew or felt.
Obviously I have two minds and with each are spells of uncertainty and doubt. But it is comforting to know that this also requires persistent courage and integrity to be myself.
Who knows who I am? Who am I as myself?
I write almost everyday, I peek into my thoughts from months ago. Surely, my impeccable attention to detail would inform me that I am this “specific person”.
But who cares? Why must it be known? Maybe you’re just as regular as anyone, maybe the emphasis you put on realizing your path is as vain as everyone else.
Maybe you’re doomed to always know the mistakes you make before you make them, maybe you’re cursed to know of your heartbreak before it happens.
Will this stop you? If Big🐗Bear🌵🌟 called tomorrow and asked you to lunch will butterflies tell you how you “just knew deep down” he cared? Or would you not believe it? Would you stop yourself from feeling EVERYthing? Would you bar yourself from the hurt in this world?
I heard something today: that black implies white, self implies other, that life implies death. It made me think that love probably implies heartbreak… And because these notions cannot exist without the other, I may realize that I would have those butterflies. I would easily slip back into the beauty of a hearts entanglement.
I cannot help it… Neither of them can help it; not my first mind, or my second. Together they feed off the gamble, and my own words will never stop them.
What I write will always be a recycled newspaper waiting to spill out my irony.