So much power in the act of writing, or so I choose to place my faith in. I have written letters for people with no faces and no names, crafting pieces for an unknown recipient. I do not think that I am foolish for trying something unreturned, for who knows if in these secret doings will someone find reason to hope again?
Leave a scattering on the car window, pages of old, table worn and other possible places. Run like the wind, don’t get caught or the magic spell may find itself undone.
In my timid heart I do fear that I may be playing with fire, but I will continue building and see if there is more than this fragile house of cards.
Paradoxical creature that I am, set on caring for the entire world yet hiding like a timid mouse in the corners of my complicated mind. What is one supposed to do when the heart can no longer handle such a massive amount of loving.
Teach me to stop running when the shadows loom frighteningly large, to accept the apparent favour of another. Please stop my ears from hearing what others cannot.
My eyes, they perceive meaning in things unmeant. Tile floors have shapes and house bricks display signs. As anxiety builds, sometimes the ground rushes up to meet me. And so I fall.
How is it that my ability to function varies so immensely?