Dear you,
Do you know that, sometimes, I refuse to write down my thoughts because I am quite sure that whatever I am thinking of has been written before, on paper, by someone I will never meet, who wrote far better than I do.
Sometimes I think it's useless to write what has already been written before. It's pointless to tell the world redundant thoughts that take us nowhere. This is why I sometimes refuse to write.
It is no excuse; I know. I just want to write something different. We all want to change the world, right? But do we ever think that we can change the world with the same ideas, using different words? No, we don't.
Today, I have no thought to put on paper. I can only write about one thing; I cannot breathe. There is heaviness in the air around me that is making less oxygen and more burdensome thoughts go in. I feel like I am breathing the whole of life, the core of life, which is not very appealing but rather appalling. I was taking in more melancholy than optimism, more heaviness than ease. I was horribly scared of not being able to breathe everything out in the same way I breathed them in, although I have always thought that I exhale life more than I inhale.
Tonight the thoughts that burden my chest, soul, and core are the same thoughts that burdened it a few weeks ago, regardless of the different ways they get into my mind. I sometimes wish I could stop breathing, because I do not trust the air around me; it is full of melancholia. Other times I am on the verge of coming up with a name for the fear of breathing, like, for example, breaphobia?
I make no sense when I make sense the most. I wish I had a gun pointed blank at every insane thought in my mind, a thought gun, and then, BAM!
Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N
Do you know that, sometimes, I refuse to write down my thoughts because I am quite sure that whatever I am thinking of has been written before, on paper, by someone I will never meet, who wrote far better than I do.
Sometimes I think it's useless to write what has already been written before. It's pointless to tell the world redundant thoughts that take us nowhere. This is why I sometimes refuse to write.
It is no excuse; I know. I just want to write something different. We all want to change the world, right? But do we ever think that we can change the world with the same ideas, using different words? No, we don't.
Today, I have no thought to put on paper. I can only write about one thing; I cannot breathe. There is heaviness in the air around me that is making less oxygen and more burdensome thoughts go in. I feel like I am breathing the whole of life, the core of life, which is not very appealing but rather appalling. I was taking in more melancholy than optimism, more heaviness than ease. I was horribly scared of not being able to breathe everything out in the same way I breathed them in, although I have always thought that I exhale life more than I inhale.
Tonight the thoughts that burden my chest, soul, and core are the same thoughts that burdened it a few weeks ago, regardless of the different ways they get into my mind. I sometimes wish I could stop breathing, because I do not trust the air around me; it is full of melancholia. Other times I am on the verge of coming up with a name for the fear of breathing, like, for example, breaphobia?
I make no sense when I make sense the most. I wish I had a gun pointed blank at every insane thought in my mind, a thought gun, and then, BAM!
Yours faithfully and sincerely,
N
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