Six

I feel insecure, that I can't start to pour out words. What relatively monumental things I must wrote, back then, for my relatively better self to squirm at the thought of continuity! Nevertheless, here goes:

Standing out by the station

Waiting for the clouds to part

It's been a very long time

Do you understand my frustration?

I can see the end in sight

But I can't see anyone I know

Not you, the one that I adore

Not you, my vibration

There are moments when I feel that words are not sufficient to describe the things I feel. Extreme happiness can be bliss, but what is extreme bliss? Extreme sadness can be grief or melancholy, but what are the extremes of both? I can't really blame words, though. Somewhere, I'm sure, the right term exists, and somehow, it does not exist within me. Does the limitation in one's vocabulary also limit the emotions one can feel? Does this same insufficiency in one's collection of words collar one's understanding of the world?

I haven't read much lately. Those I've read, I most likely will not finish doing so for a probably long time. I still hope to do so someday.

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