Remember when you told me, "but I don't talk the way I write" ? You sounded worried. Like it's a bad thing. To not always sound poetic and ordered and sure.
Well, guess what, hun. It's okay.
I don't talk the way I write, either.
My words don't always soothe, they don't always comfort, or uplift, or encourage. Sometimes, they break down and they're too loud and too quiet and sometimes they're ugly and blunt. They trip me up and trap me up and sometimes all the right words leave me and all the wrong words haunt me.
My voice sounds like unsophistication most of the time.
I struggle to put these things that l feel into words, in my head or spoken out loud. They twist and turn inside, but refuse to come out. My insides are a mess of too much and too little. Too deep or too shallow. And lots of in betweens. I can't stop this whirlwind of emotions blowing up the dust in my heart. Scattering feelings I've packed up tightly and hidden long ago. Bringing forth thoughts I haven't thought in a while.
I long for the days where my insides were neat and clean and understandable and uncomplicated. Where I could still make sense of all that I am. The days when feeling things were optional, and sadness an unfamiliar and strange sensation. Where 'messy hearts' were only 'messy rooms' and broken dreams were whole.
And fear, no. Only fearless.
I guess I just really miss those kinda days.