I said I would be a writer but I don’t know what that entails. It’s more than just words on a paper. For one, it’s not on a paper, it’s on my notes app, but the problem persists.
To what degree are my thoughts actually useful? When I write, it is not an act of service to the greater good, it’s only of self-indulgence. I want to put something helpful into the world, but it always starts with me. In order to help the world I must help myself.
Because I’m at the root of all my problems. I reside alone. My love may be in my arms, but she is not in my mind — not the real her anyways, just my perception of her.
She inhabits my thoughts in an interpretation. In the lens that I view her is that of which she exists. She can say something beautiful to me and I will transcribe it to hate. Her teeth turn into knives.
This is life’s tragic beauty. My eyes may see you, my hands may touch you, my ears my hear you, but I am the one being touched. I only take away what my interpretations of. Whenever we interact, I’m only speaking to myself. Even when we are hearing another’s beating heart, it is only to compare it to our own.