I wrote a letter today, one that I will never send.
Scribbled handwriting, through bleary eyes – words with feeling. Words that meant so little – like an apple rotten at the core. I threw that letter away.
Sometimes it is impossible to write about matters of the heart. To put down in black and white the things that are running through your mind and pulsing through your veins. I used to think that words were everything – they had the power to change the world. And maybe they do, but sometimes – in times like these – words are meaningless.
Life has the potential to be so beautiful, why does so much of it have to be so cold?
I would give anything to be able to write the letter that makes it better. The letter that makes it warm again.
But to write it would be to understand it. And the world does not make much to sense to me anymore.