Honest feelings in prose

I need to write something. I need to write what I feel, or perhaps what I’m thinking. I have yet to learn if those things are different. It seems they’re supposed to be. I find that in almost every instance the color orange and soft jazz music make me happy in a really warm and nostalgic way. If the color orange is set against a clear blue sky, I think of space. Space makes me happy. It makes me nostalgic. With the change around me every day, it feels that the sky and the stars are the things accompanying every happy memory I have. When I was younger, space was a place I could escape to. It didn’t seem to matter to the stars what I had going on in my life. They still shined as though the light from my life hadn’t reached them yet. It will be a long time before it does. I feel like I’m watching memories of a time past. The light from those stars is so old. It has traveled so far. I’m watching the light of my ancestors. The light of my bacterial ancestors. They never knew. They didn’t know anything, and now I’m thinking about the light of the stars of their time.

 

I’m more gentle than I act. I don’t like for people to know this. I act hard because it’s the only way people respect you. Being hard and genuine, that is, if you genuinely care about people. That’s really why I act hard. I care about people and I want to lead them so that they can do what will make them happy. I know I will work hard so they can grow into themselves. It feels like I’ve seen spoilers others haven’t yet. It feels like I know how important it is to love yourself, and I’m responsible to share. I want to hug everyone’s troubles away.

 

 I was asked yesterday whether, if I had to choose, I would be blind or deaf. This question brought me sadness at the thought of either.

 

 I cried at the thought of being an immigrant seeking asylum in England yesterday. I don’t cry at funerals. What does this say about me? No matter how hard I try I can never make sense of my emotions. I feel disconnected from the things around me. I just feel whatever sounds and colors are around me. 

 

I think that some people express their emotions by talking about them. I think I express my emotions by listening to them. Granted, I say this as I’m talking about what I think right now. I think I just wanted to write something meaningful, but I’m not clever enough. No one is clever enough to be genuine. I don’t even know what it means to be genuine anymore. Isn’t everything always influenced by something else? Is anything ever just pure? I think that is why I like to be alone. I like to control my influences. If I can control my environment and colors and sounds then maybe I can allow myself to be as genuine as possible.

 

The color white is draining and dead. It's so empty. New architecture leaves me feeling so alone. So small. I love the hugging passion put into old architecture. You can feel that it was truly in someone's heart before it was on paper. And even so, it was on paper. You could touch it. It wasn’t run through some autocorrecting program. It was drafted with skill and passion. You can feel the every waking second of the architect’s life culminating in the walls and form of the construction. You can feel the builder's family waiting for him or her at home. Dinner hot on the table as he puts down the last brick. When the woodworker wakes up in the middle of the night and goes out on his porch for a smoke and looks up and the sky and feels the late-night breeze, you can feel it on every inch of his construction. Every piece of old architecture has a story that feels human. It feels like tragedy and hardship. It feels like nostalgia and old Christmas memories. It feels. It feels. There is life in humanity. Every time I look and shiny squares on new buildings and enormous breathing halls devoid of life or character I feel nothing but emptiness. I feel manilla folders and freshly starched white shirts. I feel nothing.

 

Right now, despite how cold I am sitting under the air vent, I feel so warm. I feel like all of the parts of my life are weaving in front of me. The friction of their massive intersection is producing so much warmth, and I feel so real. I hope one day I learn to articulate what I’m feeling. I don’t care where I go in life as long I can feel like this wherever it is. This is why I’m living. This feeling of just ugh. The sky is gorgeous right now. The music in my ears speaks to it. The light above me is just the right shade of orange. There are people around me thinking about a ton of stuff and their energy is in the room. I feel like a piece of old architecture. I feel like I have a story. I feel like someone is waiting to turn my page and get to the next chapter. I hope they’re excited about what lies ahead. I hope the conflict is interesting, but they are still so early into it that they can’t yet remember the main character's name. I hope this is the beginning of my story. I wonder what they think I look like. I wonder if they saw me, would it ruin their impression? I wonder what they’re looking forward to. I wonder if they’ll learn anything. I wonder if my ending will be satisfying.

 

To whoever is reading my life right now: can you skip to the end and read the last word?

 What is the last word in my life going to be?

I hope it’s “you”

It’s the only word you never say alone.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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