Yea, okay, so you want me to write?
Well I suppose I can do that, in fact I am quite aware of the fact that I can. But if it hurts me to write so many of these words, why would I subject anyone else to the pain of reading them?
I have tried to make sense of other's maddening thoughts, and often find it much more draining, than enlightening.
Of course every now and then, this perfect sense of still washes over me. And all is well, for we ...... I never bother to finish that sentence.
I am hardly incapable of love — and instead am nearly broken by it. It cannot be easily defined or even compared, but how I feel when I am writing comes close — take a breath, close your eyes, focus your thoughts — and I am there in that safe place where I can release my defenses and, unafraid, offer all that I am.