0429

Synopsis:

I hold piles of lost thoughts that tend to explode into meaningless words.

...

..

.

I settled in with dramatic poems and rhyming texts because they are contexts that define me. I no longer keep myself in bonds and even less do I express myself in facts - because today's truth becomes a possible ex truth whenever I wake up in the morning with the lilac sky reminding me that life is constant.

I want to be an artist and I want to be a biologist but I also want yoga classes and attending a rave - because I want to be aware of all my possible endings. I can become a failure in the arts and rise in science or the other way around; maybe adopt seven cats and volunteer at an orphanage; I can find this current text shit; but earlier today I read that we can erase a poorly written text, but not a blank sheet. So, I keep writing.

I continue with my verses as lost as I am who follow a thousand different paths with each word I type and realize that even my thoughts remain on the line.

I don't think I see myself in an end anymore. Every time I felt like I was born for something I found out that I'm going to die before I complete all the things I was born to do.

Nor is it that cliché that we are bad at everything when we do too much. It's just a huge vibration in the world saying that there is something for me here. Something bigger than just posting fanfics and waiting for someone to read it.

But I'm still breaking everything to find out what is really the reason why I haven't been successful in any suicide attempt yet.

There is something.

What?