Laufey

 

Loneliness is a feeling so vast it echoed I became it. When writing transcends meaning much farther, so I write much more than I should. I didn’t know words could hold so much until I ran across the thought of how I wonder if I’m here at all, and so much I feel them not here as if it felt like a fabric of reality. I’m drunk with all the stories I wanted to tell, to taste, to touch, and to know. Through my sober haze, I will bury them to the sound of my sobs under my pillow. 

I still look for those undamaged souls of mine in every book that I read. Foolish, for I wish to not tolerate reality, as I await that serenity will embrace me beneath the only blanket that kept me warm from cold wars. I’d go deep in my head, but I still can’t easily define who I am. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I don’t know how to not feel deeply. With the desire to hide, I’ve been living in my mind and how little with my body. I’m not afraid to trip or fall surpassing beyond, but I might cry over wanting something I may never get.